SONG OF MY DAYS

The song only came to me

A moment ago, and pulled

The string on days long ago;

And I promptly sang for her.

Oh how she loved it!  She did.

My daughter really loved it.

I sang it as from those days—

A smart boy in uniform,

As if on that band, but no.

I sang lustily body,

But forgot the dance to it;

Though we danced so well to it.

The song started with “one child”

And the story of the rod

Giving way to the sung song,

Crept into her head there and then.

In that song,

The father stood in wonderment

Of a talent on the spot;

And my daughter said, Please dad,

Kindly give it to my mum,

And mummy will pass it on:

And I too will pass it on.

That song should never ever die:

It should pour from lips of old,

It should pour from lips today.

We do not need the drum beat,

We do not need the guitar.”

I sang lustily body.

The guitar string on my throat

Was revamped from its twisted base;

No, it was not a rod.

No, it was not a pen either.

No, it was not a sword,

But it brought back a rod—

On my back on matty beds,

On my feet on stony ground,

On my crown of lessons,

Unequal to the flagellum;

Pilate’s flagellum of blood:

And the tears dropped upon my chin,

And then my trembling lips,

Enheh—and then my chest,

But she said, “Please sing for me!

The song of your days,

Is indeed the song of my days.

I should sing it in the rain,

To wet my chin and chest.

Daddy, sing like you never sang—

The song of your days!

 Daddy, sing like you never sang—

The song of my days!

And so truly wet my chin,

And so truly wet my chest,

With the rain from inside,

As with song from your days.