Along the streets of diamonds

Are pavements lined with coal.

Within the church of faith and hope

A torn and tortured soul.

The father is a fisherman

The son a tangled net.

The mother is a metaphor

So simple to forget.

The path for all to follow

Is signed in letters deep blood red.

The lies that wait in silence,  yet to be foretold

Caught fast in the throats of the dead.

The baker with his loaves of bread

The prophet with his fish.

Stand sadly on the windswept quay

To sell the fateful dish.

The lives we build on drifting sands

Will always be denied.

Where are the promised diamonds?

The faithful knelt and cried.

I don't believe in fishermen

And prophets are a joke.

At least when I burn my coal

I'm still left with coke.

                                    _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn