No, there won’t be a song for you

 

but that’s fine. Cause they sing but not a song,
it’s just voices, something although nice to the ears, little
more than the average, still belong to the system,
in which you’re of no use. Or more precisely, your tenderness.

Tenderness is not a currency. Don’t worry, man. There’re many things else :
Illusions, social moral, shallowness, lies and of course, money. You know. Use them.

———

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous–
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind ? Do I dare to eat a peach ?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

(from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot)

there will be time…

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