Tropic Of Cancer (Foucault Jeffrey)

The tropic of the cancer In every solitary dancer Is a line dividing dream From hard devotion Residing in the heart It stands destiny apart From all decision Though we stumble Through the motion The country that we live in And all the names we have given A sky called blue and a love That speaks in English Stretched out between the poles All of this territory rolls The great blind empty Between the mind And whatever love is Love is A ring around a rose The only dance the compass knows Trains the needle on a thing we cannot find A rose by any other Name a thing and soon discover The finest pin will never hold a butterfly The heart as it relaxes Undressed upon it's axis Like a plain girl With all the paint rubbed off It whispers to our bones That we are everyone alone Of the word and by the word again forsaken And still my restless tongue Caring nothing for the sum Begins the calculus of hope and intuition A ring around a rose The only dance the compass knows Trains the needle on the thing we cannot find In the hothouse of our passion So much striving and so much fashion When God alone will call a rose a rose God alone will call a rose a rose God alone will call a rose a rose