by Mark Head

The blood flow concerning the life of the cautious executioner let life beware where
Spring and Summer meet
Let the Autumn breakfast arise as Winter’s meat
For the Host of Holies – wherever seasons greet
Let each apostle apposite become the season’s greet

For all the musics of the world that have the greater fear let no fear become the voice
for every season’s ear

Wherever the tower of pride exists there also humility has bower
The rising up from ground the water of life that flows
The lowering of the water table salt pillar high a crystal flower grows
The lessons learned from old are new
The lessons learnt are old
The children of the earth are cold
And then beware. Behold.

No further towering the powers mass
No crucifix of gold
The worshippers of such a god
Become the nations fold
And when the people all get ill
And children cry day long
The mothers then will realize the sanctity of their sacred virgin song buried deep in
memory long gone the sacred knowledge of the ages
A child dies
What then more be said
For the coupling of the aged
Lie only in death bed

No child to cry at funerals
No birth cry to be heard
Not even the song of raven
He’s dead for none be heard.
So cry the song of Gaia
Let every tear be song
Let the cry of wrongs be shed
Let forgiveness not be overlong
Herald the song of forgiveness
For Gaia’s voice be heard
No more the talk of towers
Gold coast to sea be heard
When the sea becomes a mountain
And the mountain flows like sand to the motion of the sea
Let the sea of love flow over all and then be all set free.

When the green of trees do flower
And leaves in autumn flow like wine
Let experience of the vineyard
Be stringy like the vine that droops: heavy with child

Bear the arms of pickers
To pannikens of grape
Be like a consummation
And not the nations rape
For when the tax flower blooms
No shade of refuge offers
But the shape of next years tax in retrospective coffers
So where do then the nation’s health or otherwise health flowers
Nowhere else but bureaucrats and other hot house flowers making fruit from nothing
but fallow ground and the fertile nonsense that allows tax harvesting of next years fruit
before it even flowers.

Would well the scene thus set
be set in early morning sunshine showers
So when the clouded halls do rain
The water falls in bloody streams
Taxation drains the blood they have
And lets them drown in screams
No help. No hand. No liferaft
Thrown to those in need
Its just the needle vampire
Administered by drug of force of arm of law
The bureacratic livelihood has its needs enforced before the rights of all.
For it too has to live within its means
Not pluck too hard the golden goose?
Just take the surplus egg itself and leave alone the feathers!.

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