05-20-2015, 10:34 PM
Revision 1
I think I am a good man but
hands that work don't stop to pray.
Hours pass in sweat and hope
that every day will end;
then home to fall into the fold
of old familiar things.
From my chair I watch you
until I see the saintly sleep
slip arms around us both.
Gently, I pick you up
and wrap you in warm blankets
made from softer stuff than me.
Your mother, tired, sits nodding
in our kitchen; dreaming of mirth
and madness, songs and sadness…
while we, just you and I,
climb up the stairs.
This is how each day should end.
You will say your prayers one day,
when you are old enough
to speak, if not to understand.
I will teach you unknown words
that I heard my father whisper
in the hiss and drone of night.
I know now that he cried,
for all his love was in his words
and all his words were in my dreams.
That is why, my baby boy,
all my dreams are wrapped
inside a blanket, softer than me.
I think I am a good man
but I have no time for prayer.
Original
I think I am a good man but
hands that work don't rest to pray.
Hours pass in sweat and sweet,
sweet hope that every day will end;
then home to fall into the fold
of old familiar things.
From where I sit I watch you
as saintly sleep puts arms
round both of us;
then gently, I pick you up
and wrap you in warm blankets
made from softer stuff than me.
Your mother sits alone
in the kitchen made of mirth
and madness, songs and sadness…
while we, just you and I,
climb up the stairs.
This is how each day should end.
You will say your prayers
when you are old enough
to speak the unknown words.
I once did, too, when just like you,
I heard my father whisper
in the hiss and drone of night.
I know now that he cried;
for all his love was in his words
and all his words were in my dreams.
That is why, my baby boy,
all my dreams are wrapped
inside a blanket, softer than me.
I think I am a good man
but I have no time for prayer.
Tectak.
2015
I think I am a good man but
hands that work don't stop to pray.
Hours pass in sweat and hope
that every day will end;
then home to fall into the fold
of old familiar things.
From my chair I watch you
until I see the saintly sleep
slip arms around us both.
Gently, I pick you up
and wrap you in warm blankets
made from softer stuff than me.
Your mother, tired, sits nodding
in our kitchen; dreaming of mirth
and madness, songs and sadness…
while we, just you and I,
climb up the stairs.
This is how each day should end.
You will say your prayers one day,
when you are old enough
to speak, if not to understand.
I will teach you unknown words
that I heard my father whisper
in the hiss and drone of night.
I know now that he cried,
for all his love was in his words
and all his words were in my dreams.
That is why, my baby boy,
all my dreams are wrapped
inside a blanket, softer than me.
I think I am a good man
but I have no time for prayer.
Original
I think I am a good man but
hands that work don't rest to pray.
Hours pass in sweat and sweet,
sweet hope that every day will end;
then home to fall into the fold
of old familiar things.
From where I sit I watch you
as saintly sleep puts arms
round both of us;
then gently, I pick you up
and wrap you in warm blankets
made from softer stuff than me.
Your mother sits alone
in the kitchen made of mirth
and madness, songs and sadness…
while we, just you and I,
climb up the stairs.
This is how each day should end.
You will say your prayers
when you are old enough
to speak the unknown words.
I once did, too, when just like you,
I heard my father whisper
in the hiss and drone of night.
I know now that he cried;
for all his love was in his words
and all his words were in my dreams.
That is why, my baby boy,
all my dreams are wrapped
inside a blanket, softer than me.
I think I am a good man
but I have no time for prayer.
Tectak.
2015