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Childlike Faith In Childhood's End

(Hammill)Existence is a stage on which we pass,

a sleepwalk trick for mind and heart:

it's hopeless, I know,

but onward I must go

and try to make a start

at seeing something more than day-to-day

survival chased by final death.

If I believed this the sum

of the life to which we've come

I wouldn't waste my breath.

Somehow, there must be more.

There was a time when more was felt than

known,

but now, entrenched inside my sett,

in light more mundane, thought rattles round

my brain:

we live, we die...and yet?In the beginning there was order and destiny

but now that path has reached the border, and

on our knees

is no way to face the future, whatever it be.

Though the forces which hold us in place

last through eons in unruffled grace

we, too, wear the face of creation.As anti-matter sucks and pulses periodically

the bud unfolds, the bloom is dead, all space

is living history.

It seems as though time must betray us, yet

we're alive

and though I see no God to save us yet we

survive

through the centuries of progress

which don't get us very far.

All illusion! All is bogus-

we don't yet know what we are...

laughing, hoping, praying, joking, Son of Man!

With lowered eyes but lifting hearts, we're

grains of sand

and though, in time, the sea may claim us for

its own

we are the rocks which root the future - on us

it grows!We might not be there to share it

if eternity's a jest

but I think that I can bear it

if the next life is the best.

Even if there is a heaven when we die

endless bliss would be as meaningless as the lie

that always comes as answer to the question

"Why do we see through the eyes of creation?"Adrift without a course, it's very lonely here,

our only conjecture what lies behind the dark.

Still, I find I can cling to a lifeline,

think of a lifetime which means more

than my own one-

dreams of a grander thing than we are.

Time and Space hang heavy on my shoulders:

when all life is over who can say

no mutated force shall remain?

Though the towers of the city are denied to we

men of clay

still we know we shall scale the heights some

day.

Frightened in the silence-

frightened, but thinking very hard,

let us make computations of the stars.Older, wiser, sadder, blinder, watch us run;

faster, longer, harder, stronger, now it comes:

colour blisters, image splinters gravitate

towards the centre, in final splendour

disintegrate.

The universe now beckons

and Man, too, must take His place...

just a few last fleeting seconds

to wander in the waste

and the children who were ourselves move on

reincarnation stills its now perfected song

and at last we are free of the bonds of creation.All the jokers and gaolers, all the junkies and

slavers too,

all the throng who have danced a merry tune-

human we can all be,

but Humanity we must rise above,

in the name of all faith and hope and love.

There's a time for all pilgrims, and a time for

the fakers too,

there's a time when we all will stand alone and

nude;

naked to the galaxies-

naked, but clothed in the overview...

as we reach Childhood's End we start anew.And though dark is the highway

and the peak's distance breaks my heart,

for I never shall see it, still I play my part,

believing that what waits for us

is the cosmos compared to the dust of the

past...

in the death of mere Human life shall start

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