You can probe Uncle History but
There’s nothing there
His insides are just a hall
Of dead leaves
There’s a lot of writing of course
There’s always a lot of writing
Thucydides is on a pear leaf
Hobsbawm on an alder leaf
The sound of dead leaves in wind
Soothes Uncle History
Though he can’t sleep
It’s a grand reunion he’s after
The light and dark
Of a dream forest
He’s so empty
And he can’t read
Planet of the Blind 