Ant McNaught

I sing the song of the man born blind
in a world not of my making,
where the cities of the heart
are cities for the taking.
It was light; I know not how
but the night is fast upon me now.
I am the traitor at my gate
and the city is wide open now.
I’m waiting on a messenger
from heaven.
 
I go vagabond from heart to heart
until my courage fails.
Is there none that will take my part?
Not one that will go my bail?
O, the tigers of desire
track the antelopes of memory
and I wake up just a train wreck
in the hollow of her neck.
Waiting on a messenger
from heaven.
 
O, the way one heart can wind around
another heart that it has found.
You are the one who knows my heart,
the unraveler of ways.
In the desert, long I cried
and all the while you were inside,
the maker of my days.
I’m waiting on a messenger
from heaven.
 
Sometimes the stars align,
the wheels get set in motion:
an inheritance, a dark-eyed girl,
the crossing of an ocean,
calling forth the hero’s
last measure of devotion.
But as for me, I hope to see the jubilee.
I’m waiting on a messenger
from heaven.
 
So, who then will I be
when the graves all split asunder?
When the shroud falls from my eyes
and they fill with wonder?
Will I be the infant
upon my father’s knee?
Or will I be the father, then,
and my son close to me?
I’m waiting on a messenger
from heaven.
 
My father’s thighs were trunks of trees
that I could lean against;
my mother’s eyes, the limpid seas
a landlocked artist paints.
Ah, but memory’s like moonlight
in puddles on the ground,
silver shards of heaven
laying scattered all around.
I’m waiting on a messenger
from heaven.
 
The names of the months are twelve,
the names of the days are seven
but the name of my own true love
is on the lips of a messenger
from heaven.