The River of Forget
Grey, cold spells on the Delta are requiems.
Fitful sleep and broken purposes,
wrapped together in one lonely dream.
And the Blues speaks it all --
Screaming hearts and pale guitars
whisper until morning, an almost devilish curse
of want and want and want.
If you could hear the insatiable songs
in these crumbling houses surrounding us,
and hear the moans at midnight
of indescribable love and fleeting dreams,
if you could hear our hearts beating
on drums not made for war,
and hear the moans at midnight
of indescribable love and fleeting dreams,
if you could hear our hearts beating
on drums not made for war,
our pulse listless until dancing,
and this desperation flowing
down the banks of the Mississppi,
down the River of Forget,
down the nightmare-grieved cheeks of children
sleeping in soft beds at midnight.
down the nightmare-grieved cheeks of children
sleeping in soft beds at midnight.
























