Song of the Wandering Fog
If you go out in the fog today, you’re not sure of a great surprise.
If you go out in the fog any day, you may not be sure you’re wise.
For everywhere you go through fog
is bound to be confusing,
and everything that’s bemusing you
means a well of anxiety.
I can’t go out in the sun today, nor under a sky that’s blue,
I can’t go out in my favourite air
nor go forward without a care.
As I go out in the fog again, I know I’ll never be sure
when I’ll bash my head on a wall
because fog is obscure and means unsure,
and can even drum up fear.
When I am out in the fog right now, I’m in touch with reality.
When fog is thick and hard to cross,
I’m sure I am not free to act
in charge of my destiny.
When you go out in the fog next time be sure to celebrate.
You’re bound to get lost,
you’re bound to be tossed
into a new divide.
Should you go left or should you go right?
Should you go back or should you press on
when you don’t know where you’re going?
There’s only one way to decide.
Are you ready to be safe and sure to save face,
and what did you do last time?
How strong are your arms, your legs and your heart
’cause they here to help you start,
to welcome the dark,
shake hands with the gloom,
and muddle your way towards a rising moon.
You’re born with a light that shines
from an undergrowth
and you’re never alone in a vacuum.
No fog can extinguish your will to adventure.
Now where shall we go today?
We play on each other’s stages
to music we can’t hear,
sound out an echo
into a strange new background.
We meet each other in the familiar
and miss one another in the weather,
speak in diverse tongues
of pictures we’ll never complete.
We sound alike on the street,
on the top floor of the bus.
At the hairdresser we are all blown dry
and we all shed skin.
That’s where the story ends,
the adventure begins. The day starts
with the mass rising from sleep.
The joints connecting again.