I wouldn't say I was an old fool yet
but a time arrives in the lives of men
when a kindly mist enshrouds the Holy Past
(we wouldn't make those mistakes again).
The backward glance: always a price to pay
for who has lived that time has not battered?
As we stand at the mercy of the sun-
no longer those whom the daylight flatters.
Sometimes the scent on a drifting breeze
draws us back to when all of our hands were clean
when all the world seemed comprehensible:
what we had with all those simpler machines
(and still we yearn for all those simpler machines...)
Shell-shocked by the speed of life
and nothing broken we know how to mend
bewildered by such perpetual delights:
we want to feel the wheels and architraves again.
And preciously; precariously
-robust as porcelain figurines-
we take a bow and start to say goodnight
comrades for ever with all those simpler machines
locked into history with those simpler machines
The Scrapyard Stars are glittering tonight:
the shards and smithereens
No question: it is a sentimental sight
our toys and tools all of those simpler machines.
they'll break your heart alright, those simpler machines...