#gidlow

I am a seed in the dust, A live root bedded in night, And I am filled with a lust For something the worms call light. From what seed-pod I was blown Matters little to me, Why and by whom I was sown Or what the reaping may be. I only wait for my hour When I shall be done with night, When I shall thrill into flower And drink till I die of light.

There are gods in the market place. Did you know there were gods there? All, yes. Gods, gods, There are gods everywhere. I think the many like gods, I think they like to pray and mourn. For a joy-song their prophets sing: "A new God will soon be born!" For a joy-song I would sing: "Let every god be down-torn." But what is the world muttering? Has she whispered it since life began? "Gods! I want none of your gods. Look to yourself — Man."

I like grey skies, At least they tell the truth; Grey skies, Reflective skies That do not laugh at all Nor weep vain tears. Unpromising, Unhoping, Cold. Grey skies, No fear in them Nor any joy, No tragedy, All grey. I like grey skies, Unweeping, smileless skies. They do not lie.