Look you not to those idle eyes
That fail to watch and realize
The fetal urge that came about
From our waking days
Made in the dark.
Still with the living,
A question to bear
Brooding towards
All for those who care.
They sip the words of memorialized days
And feel the breath of a turning page,
Yet the common power that holds the gaze
Causes a flock to follow common ways.
So the folksong singers hum their tales,
Looming patterns of every pair.