I heard the song sung with a catchy tune,
of love and life in the realms of dynasty,
of the forgotten old bishop kings,
they had emerged from nowhere but into the bylanes,
of dust and grew with scaffold on the dusky nights,
Listen to the queer wavering of moony love,
there is no shame in forgetting the psalms of day,
that were sacred and beyond the greyhounds’ nest,
I still chase the dreams of youth but now they are,
remembered with chaste honor of the old,
wickered day. There goes the john of baptist,
way into the light and with freedom of this day.
And silence grows every day.