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Hine-MacIver-Jeffes |
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A space between three transverse lines |
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That move toward a point sublime |
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Each in its turn each turn in time |
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First one before then one behind |
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We lift the bell across the chime |
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The watcher sees with watchman eyes |
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Each in its turn each turn in time |
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First one before then one behind |
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We shield the soul with faces cold |
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To feed the young we eat the old |
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Each in its turn each turn in time |
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First one before then one behind |
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The grave is waste hear people cry |
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As peeling lips they wait to die |
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Each in its turn each turn in time |
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First one before then one behind |
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The point is named |
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where hands combine |
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eternally |
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doubtfully |
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zero |
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linger on |
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longer than known |
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What Pagan Jester planned our lives |
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And laid our heads on anvils five |
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Who civilised the fateful line |
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Between the point where hands combine |
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You've reached your turn |
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You're next in line |
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Step up my friend |
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I am behind... |
