every valley has not been exalted
and the hills still need to be
made low so that i can look over
them and see the glory i stopped
believing love is lukewarm and
affection damp at best and these
damn folks don't try their best
from one look, one gaze, all i
see is half life
and still, in my life,
out of the corners
in the stable, in the cave.
so quietly, so quietly,
hear him crying,
the little child is born
all these days, all these travels
have stretched tiresome and long
but past lies, deceptions,
half attempts, i hear the angels' song