Let there be laughter, she said, and it was good.
A little faith for unyielding light
A little hope against brutish night.
A little strength upon each arid breath
A little sufferance against every wrath.
The Midnight Special
Well, you wake up in the mornin’, you hear the work bell ring
And they march you to the table to see the same old thing
Ain’t no food upon the table, and no pork up in the pan
But you better not complain, boy, you get in trouble with the man
(Traditional folk song / John Fogerty)
In the low smoulder
you wear fine silk pajamas
and will be adored.
Sweet lingered kisses,
away from curious eyes,
longing for shadows.