The Wheatfields East of Eden
A Song for the Forgotten
On a little ride in Caroline
a dead cat lies in dead grass high
as knees
and soon too cold without
the chance to die too old.
And sad it is a story told.
Sad it is a story where
There is no pen to show.
No little bird in all the world,
could dispel death with just a word,
So fray the strands of hair.
She cannot save
or take them there,
To show them care,
Forever, where,
They run and sing and play;
With kids and cats
both night and day,
Forever’s way,
There’s nothing left to say,
And no one will ever know.
Nameless, spectral, no one goes..
No tragedy,
Like those we see,
are worse than all the words,
which be,
For glitz and fortunes rare.
The ones which are with unknown star
out of hand and long too far,
is too strong and rare.
She’ll walk alone until she’s gone
And no one will even care.
No one will look—
Or read or that book,
No one alive but me.
And that would take
My heart and break it,
like a piece of stone.
The tragedies,
the kind which be,
are different and played on;
the screens, the stage,
from quill to page,
Where go:
The role they know,
The dice to show,
Their fate before our stare.
Tragedies,
the ones not seen,
Where no one seems to care.
Those true to life,
outside the page,
where no one stands
no actors played,
those are the worse there are,
worse than those in fancy clothes,
And far off places, where—
In the sky some sing, some cry;
Some bend with age, tear.
Tragedies when make-believe,
have a bright shining star.
Tragedies, the ones unseen,
By no one, all they go.
Without a star to go too far,
No one will get to know—
The nameless ones
Who sing, who sung,
And crept back down below.
No one alive will get to know,
the nameless ones who stole the show.
And brought down all the house.
Sometimes will glow a picture show,
With Golden lights and Romeo.
Juliette in the window all day;
she waits and waits,
and combs her hair,
Looks in the distance
with a stare
and pines the day away.
The sun goes down without a sound,
the curtain closed the page.
The sun goes down,
the moon runs ‘round,
and so has died the day.
The light inside the lover’s eyes,
who kissed the lips of Suicide,
Will wait until too late to die.
Sadder still are those who will,
Sing along the tragic song—
Of those once lived now gone.
The car arrived with death inside,
The Maiden left her ring;
to cross and ride the great divide,
and in the unknown sing.
Where kids long gone,
who died along
the road with cats will play:
deathless in the sun all day.
Nobody walks and no one talks.
There’s nothing left to say.
The dead there now just look, just nod,
and watch the children play;
They bide their time, pull in the line,
The dream will fade by day.
The song plays on, in silence on,
The Channel just to say:
Goodbye, goodbye.
No reason why,
the song will end someday.
a dead cat lies in dead grass high
as knees
and soon too cold without
the chance to die too old.
And sad it is a story told.
Sad it is a story where
There is no pen to show.
No little bird in all the world,
could dispel death with just a word,
So fray the strands of hair.
She cannot save
or take them there,
To show them care,
Forever, where,
They run and sing and play;
With kids and cats
both night and day,
Forever’s way,
There’s nothing left to say,
And no one will ever know.
Nameless, spectral, no one goes..
No tragedy,
Like those we see,
are worse than all the words,
which be,
For glitz and fortunes rare.
The ones which are with unknown star
out of hand and long too far,
is too strong and rare.
She’ll walk alone until she’s gone
And no one will even care.
No one will look—
Or read or that book,
No one alive but me.
And that would take
My heart and break it,
like a piece of stone.
The tragedies,
the kind which be,
are different and played on;
the screens, the stage,
from quill to page,
Where go:
The role they know,
The dice to show,
Their fate before our stare.
Tragedies,
the ones not seen,
Where no one seems to care.
Those true to life,
outside the page,
where no one stands
no actors played,
those are the worse there are,
worse than those in fancy clothes,
And far off places, where—
In the sky some sing, some cry;
Some bend with age, tear.
Tragedies when make-believe,
have a bright shining star.
Tragedies, the ones unseen,
By no one, all they go.
Without a star to go too far,
No one will get to know—
The nameless ones
Who sing, who sung,
And crept back down below.
No one alive will get to know,
the nameless ones who stole the show.
And brought down all the house.
Sometimes will glow a picture show,
With Golden lights and Romeo.
Juliette in the window all day;
she waits and waits,
and combs her hair,
Looks in the distance
with a stare
and pines the day away.
The sun goes down without a sound,
the curtain closed the page.
The sun goes down,
the moon runs ‘round,
and so has died the day.
The light inside the lover’s eyes,
who kissed the lips of Suicide,
Will wait until too late to die.
Sadder still are those who will,
Sing along the tragic song—
Of those once lived now gone.
The car arrived with death inside,
The Maiden left her ring;
to cross and ride the great divide,
and in the unknown sing.
Where kids long gone,
who died along
the road with cats will play:
deathless in the sun all day.
Nobody walks and no one talks.
There’s nothing left to say.
The dead there now just look, just nod,
and watch the children play;
They bide their time, pull in the line,
The dream will fade by day.
The song plays on, in silence on,
The Channel just to say:
Goodbye, goodbye.
No reason why,
the song will end someday.