A
united force in a fresh brigade,
their
best not afraid,
reaching
out with fingers fine and fanciful,
or
perhaps with fingers gnarled but strong.
Fingers
of conscience nonetheless,
to
touch the hearts that mourne.
The
dolphin is dead,
but
shall live again,
'Ere
long the swell rises up
beyond
the sea to the moon.
We'll
hear the choking gurgles
of
the music as it drowns and sinks
deep
into the filthy humus sea,
while
the saws and chains stand
and
ogle and wave their trophies
of
crowns of dead and strangled leaves.
The
old man will sing the loudest
and
before he dies a deserved death,
shall
breathe fresh breath into the dolphin,
with
faith and passion to enliven
the
dreary corps of our apathetic youth,
who'll
yet get to see the dolphin jump and play.
Only
then can the dolphin visit the trees,
and
listen to the music too long funerial,
lest
we all must attend the most horrid burial.
In
the distance 'tis the old man who sings,
while
the child tentatively takes up the tune,
beneath
the sturdy oak with music in its leaves.
And
'tis the song of the dolphin together they sing.
