With open eye

When we die we cannot fantasise
The body seems tranlucent  like a flower
We must confront the truth, we cannot lie

In strange times we daydream  and surmise
We float with butterflies through coloured hours
When we die,  what use is fantasy?

In the end our will is poor ally
We’re owned by forces other and their power
Oh, can I take the truth as stiff I lie?

Like red leaves from  the maple trees we fly
Undone by autumn wind and sudden showers
When we die we  need no fantasy

The good  imagined is not   in our minds
We babble like the infant in her tower
We choose the truth,  the  dead must  never lie

The choices once so strident  miss the hourera
The still small voice   oh hear  like Jeremiah
,We must admit the truth with open eye
God is not  quite dead nor elegaic