When all the saints have marched right out
and when the sun no longer shines
the clouds will rule like despots
and the rain their bidding do.
It will fall and spread o’er all the world
collecting history in its wake
and scatter bits and bobs about
like hand-outs to the poor.
And after turmoil, strife, and woe
silence will reign again
and all who made the loudest noise
will humbly kneel and beg.
But silence holds no grudges ere
towards the tongues of men
who like the rain inflict the pain
as if a faithful servant.
The tongues of men; will they rebel
and seek to serve through quiet repose
before that certain downpour
in the darkness after light?
No, not ere for made to speak
the mind has settled down to sleep
and will not, cannot, wake to be
the carrier of thoughts to you.
Yet still I think my bits and bobs
and scatter them not to the poor
but to the rich in mindfulness
who use their wealth to good effect.
Can you hear me? No, I think not ere
because, because, mind sleeps, you see,
when the tongues of men prattle on
and do not reap the crop
of silent mindfulness!