Perched upon one precipice of life and death,
This bike mounts here and descends there,
Makes pretty patterns in the rain,
And slides along the sidewalk in an Oh so graceful imitation of a skid.
Mine own engine, my mind,
Is a much faster form of transport,
And the wheezing bike can only gape,
With all the bewilderment in this world,
As I create ideas like ghosts, for our driver to expunge.
A coming tragedy,
The scene all set before my eyes,
Would break my poor family,
All alone in ancient Ireland.
When I am dead, how, possibly, can I tell them,
Not to worry, everything will be all right,
That the night was coloured a luminous purple,
And red ocher streaks were spinning in the sky,
The rain fell ever so gentle,
Like poor emaciated plumes or petals.
The only story they will hear,
The legend of my early demise,
Shall contains some tales about scattered limbs,
And the scurrying vats of blood,
Hurrying to join such other filthy things,
As the rainwater that congeals within the gutter,
All of this such misery,
As they never heard or seen,
The beauty in the landscape,
Beneath a South East China sky.