They would be unknown, walking in the procession of the unknown. They would bear sorrow, their sorrow,
- And they would not find comfort in your joy.
- Their aching heart seeks not consolation in your words and the song thereof.
And their pain, silent and unshapen, Makes them creatures lonely and unvisited.
Though hemmed about by kin and kind, They live in fear, uncomraded; Yet they would not be alone.
They would bend eastward when the west wind blows.
They call you king, And they would be in your court.
They pronounce you the Messiah, And they would themselves be anointed with the holy oil.
Yea, they would live upon your life.
Master, Master Singer,
- Your tears were like the showers of May,
- And your laughter like the waves of the white sea.
When you spoke, your words were the far-off whisper of their lips when those lips should be kindled with fire;
You laughed for the marrow in their bones that was not yet ready for laughter; And you wept for their eyes that yet were dry;
Your voice fathered their thoughts and their understanding; Your voice mothered their words and their breath.