To make dawn in the desert sky,
Then he poured them into the race of time
But forgot to mention why.
And with them he poured the scented warmth
Of summer nights on the Nile,
And with them too the morning breeze
And the bright moon’s lonely smile;
And the years before and the years beyond,
And faith and the helpless stars,
And the grim charade of life and death,
And countless forgotten wars.
But when all the colours go home to the stone
With the cool of the dew of the dawn,
With the tinkle of bells and the shuffle of sand
Of the camel train in the morn,
Will then the painter paint still in the dark
When the only colour is black?
When the dawn and the years and the bells and the stars
Are lost and will never come back?
RAE, 16 June 1982
To make dawn in the desert sky,
Then he poured them into the race of time
But forgot to mention why.
And with them he poured the scented warmth
Of summer nights on the Nile,
And with them too the morning breeze
And the bright moon’s lonely smile;
And the years before and the years beyond,
And faith and the helpless stars,
And the grim charade of life and death,
And countless forgotten wars.
But when all the colours go home to the stone
With the cool of the dew of the dawn,
With the tinkle of bells and the shuffle of sand
Of the camel train in the morn,
Will then the painter paint still in the dark
When the only colour is black?
When the dawn and the years and the bells and the stars
Are lost and will never come back?
RAE, 16 June 1982