Bell is chiming
Sing is rising
Thanksgiving song hears afar
In Christmas time in my village
Every soul think of God.

Every person
With so much love
Humble themselves with a praise
In my little hometown
The Messiah brought our God's grace.

Young, and old,
Go in long straight line
To the temple praise, up high
In my little home town the
People are praying to God

It seems to me
The Lord of High
Sent down us His love and peace
In my little humble town
Every hearts
Open for Grace

I'm lost in the big city,
On the noisy streets
I wish I can go home
For Christmas Eve
I wish to pry just like
old times

With open heart have the Peace.
I wish I can forget the years
I can return, as a child,
I wish to have back my child faith
To able to receive the Grace.

If the story of this Night
Would become our Guiding Light
The world around us might
Be a place of honest life.
Sinful men would stand for God
And the hope for eternity

Should be as for all the time
The life here in the earth
Would not be like pain of birth
Only one force would lead us
In the Universe to pass,
There would no more creed to take
Only Praise our God the Great
And have love for the others ...
Christmas message
Should be told
Around the whole big world.

I take you looking at the statue
the smile is yours and the stone is you
the stone is simple and the smile is playful
the smile is stolen and the stone is fallen
I ask you to stand and smile like that until
thinking you stone, time has forgotten you.
They say but really I forget

however picturesque
however figurative
whether so often and so quizzical
whoever it was crying in another voice ...
Let us sit like tailors. At least 1 am sure of this:
man or woman or beast I recall no face.

The night is kind so please to bend your arm
hide your head in the hollow of your arm
nobody will take you unawares, nobody
and nobody will take you unprepared
for time it is now to step out of time
and sleep will come as easy as kiss my hand
and you will find sleep kind.

Sleep has few terrors if we sleep like you
it is a cooling shower that falls on you
the water running through mirrors noiselessly
dreaming in doing things you dreamt to do.

But now all brawn Colossus straightens up
and stammers in the language of birds
and the sea goes mincing back into the sunset
strange to have lived so long upon this planet
daylight and moonlight, all the fun in the world.

To stop the wheels of state, I made
My life a kind of counter friction
And went to jail, my tax unpaid,
Until a friend with less conviction

Paid so its cogs might turn again
To spit me out.  And as I stood
Behind those four thick walls of stone,
That heavy door of iron and wood,

I saw how states and institutions
Must be half-witted, thinking men
Are merely flesh and blood and bones
To be locked up at their discretion.

The night I spent in jail was novel
And interesting enough:  My cell
Was clean and neat on my arrival—
It might have been a small hotel

The way the inmates leaned to chat
In doorways till the lockup call.
Once learning where to hang my hat,
I took my station at the wall

And gazed out through its grille, as pages
Of history seemed to waft my tow
Backward to the Middle Ages,
Turning our Concord to the Rhine.

Next morning, through an oblong slot,
They passed our meal—brown hunks of bread
And steaming pints of chocolate --
And after having breakfasted,

My roommate, who spent mornings haying
In neighboring fields each day till noon,
Bade me good-bye and parted, saying
He doubted we'd be meeting soon.

Let out myself, I then proceeded
Across the street to fetch the shoe
I'd left to mend, then unimpeded
Strolled slowly down an avenue

And past the square and when last seen
On top a hill two miles from town,
Was lost in huckleberrying,
My conscience clear, my duty done.

Cherry-hard young I was
when first you bedded me
and did the things lust does.
Though you lived fast and free

I was not one who sought
new faces or new ends,
hungry for what you taught:
the tyranny, the amends.

Of late, you're back again
(no new lads to uncover?)
demanding I maintain
some semblance of the lover;

listen, I held your heat
risking all to defend it!
Old now, I cannot cheat
the silence that must end it.

So let it end in sleep,
the spectral with the human;
what goddess cares to keep
at love's expense love's union?

You'd think I might have learned,
having done Hell and burned.

At last the path runs straight
from his hovel to the skies
and the bolted postern gate
of the Western Paradise
where seven times seven
Immortals judge a throng,
admitting some to heaven
for the pittance of a song.

After the storm an Arctic dawn
lifts frost-smoke from the swelling flood
as a lone doe, freighted with fawn,
trudges across the frozen mud.

Soon we will join the refugees:
woodchucks, skunks, and orchard mice
sharing mammalian miseries
in treelots sheathed with creaking ice.

Our house stands at the riverbank,
too low for dike or barricade
to fend this torrent off its flank.
As cracking ice pans cannonade,

I wait and watch. Disaster comes
with a last hour of normalcy:
in the dining room, chrysanthemums;
on the stereo, a symphony.

Then you arrive at noontime, drunk.
Why change your ways when rivers rise?
I see your watery pupils sunk
in the inward mire we both despise

as Mahler’s hammer-strokes of fate
resound, fortissimo, by threes:
the record snows, an April spate,
and your insidious disease.

I must choose life, and it is here with you
When with a hair-tossed flourish, and all bare,
You take on its stand the candle and walk through
Dark rooms to the unlit bathroom, where we
Like figures from some medieval mystery
Take a hot bath together, whispering, aware
As here we are wreathed in perfumed steam,
Of the whipping night outside and the long scream
Of the gale. There's nothing else to be satisfied
After our hours together, except we be
Cleansed and calmed and, fragrant, dried,
Then wrapped in dreamless sleep.  And suddenly
Poor Yeats, you say, besotted with Maud Gonne!
All those letters!  Between us, hardly one.

Some find The Light in literature;
Others in fine art,
And some persist in being sure
The Light shines in the heart.

Some find The Light in alcohol;
Some, in the sexual spark;
Some never find The Light at all
And make do with the dark,

And one might guess that these would be
A gloomy lot indeed,
But, no, The Light they never see
They think they do not need.

There must be white farms beyond the edge
of the blue fields by the moon
at night you hear along distant roads
horse hooves
you hear everything then silent delusion
water is suddenly oozing from distant moon fountains
— you suddenly hear water
oozing in the night —
the horses drink hurriedly
and whinny
then they are heard trotting towards the stable again