Son of Man

Where do you go now, son of man?
Where do you go now, daughter of woman?
Where do you go now, child of child, of child, of child?

Everyday you fall from grace anew.

There you would hold out hollow hands.
There you would hold out, linger and falter.
Dare you to hold out time and time and time again?

Everyday you fall from grace anew.

Fill your hollow head with hope so to keep it well afloat,
root your feet into the ground so you won’t be blown about,
fold your hands and hide your eyes so the light don’t make you blind,
stand erect and start to sing so the night won’t do you in.

Here you go now making your stand.
Here you go now playing the martyr.
Here you go now fighting fights to find yourself.

And everyday you fall from grace anew.
And you’re walking unafraid fairly sure to know the way,
and your spine is nice and straight but, alas, it’s made of clay.
Hear it cracking in the sun, feel it melting in the rain.
All the effigies for naught, and no time to start again.


Martin Brunner, 2010