Another attempt at using a Sylvia Plath poem for lyrics, as I really liked the last one (Circle 22.) This one has a bit of an anthem feel. I don’t feel it works as well, but it’s in a Major key, and I never like those as well…
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother,
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us,
The fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhere. Our folk thin