Been Through The Mill

Been Through The Mill

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill,
and we will until
we spill out from the mill.

Sitting outside your shack,
holes in your shoes,
now you know how
they found the tones of the blues,
but you will swim on,
the muddy duck on the water,
never the swan.

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We hate those who kill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We roll a stone up a hill,
still we’re put through the mill,
and we will until
we grind out of the mill.

The golden lion, his mane matted and shorn,
weeps over the wheels that turn to grind corn.

Woman, my muse, sits long in her tower,
waits for worlds to renew, burgeon and flower.

There’s a way if you’ve the will
still to wind down with the mill.
The hawk waits to kill,
still the dove hovers over the hill.
The hollow will fill
still with water until
the banks over spill.

We may have advanced from the field and the farm,
but we still need a shelter to shield us from harm.

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We hate those who kill,
still they sharpen their skill.
For those who are born,
we must grind more corn.
We rust down until,
we spill out from the mill.

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