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Along the tracks the wires are humming |
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in bursts of code like far-off drums. |
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Fathering the message: |
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further up the line someone's shouting |
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down the passage of time. |
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The corridor restrains the window, |
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no view without the eye within. |
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Bold upon the threshold |
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but holding on the line |
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we're shouting down the passage of time. |
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Relatives speak on the phone, on the train, |
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talking before they have thought to explain; |
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voices pitched wildly on tracks in the night |
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can't pick the pace up... |
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oh let there be light! |
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How light becomes the soul. |
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You know yourself the centre of attention, |
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you see yourself the locus of event. |
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I'm sorry if it's painful quarrying the lime, |
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stage centre, |
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shouting down the passage of time. |
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The corridor retains its shadows, |
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its secrets compartmentalised. |
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Damping down on ambience, |
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clamp the teeth and grind, |
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shouting down the passage of time. |
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What's there to see or make clear? |
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What's there to know when the voice is right here? |
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What's there to promise or vow? |
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What's to believe, when the time is right now? |
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Relatives spoke on the phone, on the train, |
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talking before they had sought to refrain; |
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voices projected, spears in mid-flight |
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frozen forever... |
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oh let there be light! |