If you had counted all the chances
And the moments and the dances
That you, in your confusion
Your deceptions, your illusions
Had carelessly thrown away
Then
Would they number all the sand-grains,
Orthe rain-drops in the fountains,or
All the rocks upon the mountains
Of the bitter barren island
Of your soul?
Then
Would your tears flow like the rivers,
Sweating drops from fevered shivers,
Or the arrows from the quivers
Of the Archers
Of your words?
Then
Would you seek within your core,
Try to heal the feathered sore
And then reach out for the shore
Of a long-departed mainland
On the horizon far away?
Or
Would you take up all the Landmines
And open up the fine wines
And fix up all the phone-lines
And let them come into your Sanctum,
If they promise to be careful
Of all the fragile places
Where they might plant their feet?
But
If you make concrete of the sand-grains
And poss in all the fountains
And mine off all the mountains
Then
You've nothing left to count on,
A rotting isle to drown on,
Chances lost and missed to frown on
But
You said:
"I'm long past counting
And lost count
Long ago"
