Much struggle with machine shadows one with the self,
Spat anger and indignity subdued in hope and temperance,
Fools knowledge is but swift abandoned thought and enquiry,
The path is ever patient on to understanding's prize:
The fear of God and seeking of his gentle ways.

The world I'd love to share,
Gives tactile form to fantom gears,
Like clockwork rendered with a pen,
All its life is both so you and yet transcends,
You're ever facing reason in so grand a match:
The folly and the wisdom,
The roadblock and eureka,
The apprehension and abandon,
It seems too strange and yet rings true,
That I am just myself but so estranged in these deep games.

Three of fours,
Make way for two,
At least there's only one,
But gladly it is half of four,

A language that does dance in lines,
That makes the numbers merry acts,
That turns itself in knots to do
A magic trick in metred step,

What gift it is this language broad,
It's cry I heeded: All Aboard!
So now it's mine a gleaming sword,
Cut gems of phrase I can't afford.

Cloud walking,
Sleepy in the air,
Ascendant on the racing clouds,
That wrap around the rolling earth,
And rumble, soaked and heavy in parts,
And others boil with furious crackles,
But here they float on slowly now,
Under the setting stars.