In the valleys so dark, and skies that rue,
I see my nation, my people, my children,
among their legacy, but mingles the hue,
of a purpose left wasted in egos belligerent.
More than their joys, I have witnessed tears,
miserable reminders how fallen they are,
but more than their patience, indolence I fear
has led them to slumber ignominiously par.
Seeing them defeated, something is awake,
a pondering, curious figure of black,
a visage so horrid, I turn for Gods sake,
and look to my east, yet it looks to my back.
Its gentle steps I can hear, not wanting
and its fingers pondering through the very skin
of every shadow standing silent and taunting,
but holding its breath as if living were a sin.
Its serpentine tongue slithering at my feet,
watchful its gaze, while scratching the soil,
and the fuming horns being thus from the heat
while its whipping tail now drops from a coil.
The bleeding crows that hang from the boughs,
I imagine the fear now frozen in their eyes
must also be prevalent in my own that bow
down to the dust where my destiny lies.
My flesh being torn at the seams of its ponder,
hot blood dangling from the vines of its crown,
and all the while it is I who must wonder,
when will the insatiable beast fall down.
I embrace you, my curse, my wound, my fall,
feed to your fill, until I have withered away,
I forgive you, my nation, my people, my all,
rest from a caprice until the end of all days
In the valleys so dark, and skies that rue,
Falls the sweetest apple, from the stem of its laden bough,
like a supple water drop from a dripping finger tip.
To grace the quivering lips, or the tainted wastelands brow?
Shall it hold its mothers hand, or deign to let it slip?
For every fruitful tree, there is a lifeless one,
and every where I look, I lose and find my faith,
but then I turn to ponder how the children of the sun,
can forgive its scorching love, and in its caresses bathe.
Alas! I find my peace, where fireflies come to nest,
inglorious they would be, would they awaken at dawn,
but faith has vouchsafed wings, and to apples sweetest rest,
tomorrow they shall depart, to where those before have gone.
No matter where, no matter how, no matter when, no matter what,
I do to find my way to you, my war shall find its way to me.
As long as I can find a way, search I shall forever but,
the day this war shall embrace me, consume me, extinguish me.
For now I watch a grieving candle, its tears of wax while turning stiff,
and the abject silence long but over, helps me wonder, what if, what if,
I had you resting by my side, would I feign a care to give?
would the war mean something then, would I deign a vigil to live?
Outside my window, an empire dark, and in its throne some flames light,
of all these lamps that welcome gaze, one must call me to your door.
Perhaps you must be sound asleep, or akin to me witnessing the sight,
a pool of blood mocking in the streets, under the lamps it has no shore.
Remember how we used to say, “the war can never haunt our dreams,
far it is from our haven here, where the only red is that of orchids.”?
How far from worry we were then, unreal at best it does now seem,
that Edens past how quickly deigns to turn its back to sights so horrid.
In the garden of delights forgotten long, blood is feeding every tree,
the war is calling out my name, still wanting me, and needing me.
I fear I must state something true, but something that does not make sense,
that is that if I truly knew, that you were mine and nothing less,
or if I knew this for a fact, that you could never love me, thence
this war would have surely ended my life, and my soul I must confess.
That is why in dying days, among the curtains burning down,
amidst the ruins of my years, betwixt the crumbling ashen walls,
I bleed when hurt, fall when wounded, weep while wearing a gilded crown,
and frozen is sardonic dear, bedridden child our name it calls.
A cradle held our love departed, bundled flesh of muted violence,
angel was thy race my child, thou wert whom we prayed well for,
and its mother, my one true love, practiced hatred, embraced silence,
you are whom I search this day, the memory of our child, our war.
Fading slowly into the subtle embrace of solitude,
escaping what life is. What it could be, my refuge.
A final draw of breath before drowning in my sleep,
ambiguity prevails, but lucidity eventually creeps.
I dream a little dream, so vivid and clear,
of someone I know, so darling and dear.
Behold the blinding white, everywhere I see
a frozen lake in darkness, yes dreaming I must be,
but on this frigid canvas, a lonely flame is she,
a ballet dancer moving, and curious it makes me.
How raven is her hair, deeper than the night,
and fair as snow herself, clear as can be white.
Her motions merry vivacious, but her eyes gloomy grey,
and the facade she keeps us, with a passion I must say.
A dance of the ages, or perhaps an ode to my life,
stoic it does seem, all these smiles to hide the strife.
The hanging sword of Damocles, not the intent but the end
and the final act it seems, is a wound unable to mend.
Entranced by this performance, I await applause despite
the darkness our only audience, the night our only respite.
I catch a glimpse of fancy, and that I misconstrue,
a love for all the reasons, not a singe of it is true,
my heart, it paces on, and so does the swan lake peak,
a symphony that never ends, and an end I never seek.
The close is drawing neigh, and so she finally stops
the music no more, no more the dance, and Alas! the tear it drops.
A frail hand protrudes, grasping the abyss asking now
a hand for a hand to help her up, and accompany her in a bow,
celeritous I do run, and hope to catch her grace,
hope to hold her hand, hope to see her face.
Out of nowhere and the deep, a lurking shadow there
comes to help her to her feet, need more to speak I dare?
Nay! for then she walks, and fades into the mist,
my friend my one true misery, loneliness my gist.
Here I stand solitary, between nowhere and goodbye,
as good a place as any to fall, whither and die.
I may still have my destiny, I may still have my fate,
but a life to lead without you, is a life that I shall hate.
With that my dream, it ends, and Lo! a painful wake
lifeless walls to see, and breathing for breathings sake,
my friend if ever you dream, a dream of a frozen lake
be sure to tell that woman, I died of a heart ache.
They buried me under the ice, and frozen I would be,
if not for your dancing memory, the dance that I still see.
The moments that keep in our memories eternal,
are those in wait before the most beautiful,
and thoughts that burn in our passions infernal,
are embers that fade with a sigh most pitiful.
Savor this longing that ceases for yearning,
frolicking children of light and the dark,
that goblet of wine breathing while turning,
faded and faded from the deep it embarks.
Before one another’s words we may drink,
let us drown ourselves in such rever,
lips so red in even sin migtest sink,
let us remember this moment forever.
If this wait could grow old and senile,
and lose itself in warps of greys,
you and I could stay in sweet denial
with all to follow most pallid of days.
Of all the queues of hopeful yearning,
the one I most dread standing in,
undulates serpeantile on meadows turning
lifeless grey with the silence grim.
Redounds every now and then a shout,
“stand in line you, stand in line,
bare not a countenance that holds a doubt,
what is yours is mine, yours is mine”,
and in these aisles of ashen dreams
where darkness holds its last sanctuary,
drip effulgent the glorious beams
and light the bloody pools of treachery.
The youth of now drowns as we speak,
holding hands of the lifeless old,
as the closing doors can only creak
while a tragic fate must now unfold.
The voice of spring, youth of a nation
made to wait while verdure abates,
most of them prey to dispassion
as patient fools face misanthropic gates.
How many curtains must be drawn on you?
my hopeful friend, my faithful friend,
how many dreams must you bid adieu?
for this is today, and is this the end?
But who am I, to condescend with pity,
when myself I am but waiting all the while
shuffling feet on the dirt, and prithee
an ocean of hopefuls moving single file.
With every moment my fading visage,
with every bruise my servile bow,
makes me as the youth of this age,
a thoughtless face, a hopeless brow.
I worry not for the days I stand
regardless how indignant it may be,
but if my love were to hold my hand
I dare say, she may not discern me.
Nothing worse can happen, than for someone to awake
from a reverie so lucid, or a vivid dream scape.
I say this so assuredly, for my world has burned
in the flames of ambiguity, for my love was spurned.
I fear to close my eyes, in case I drift away,
from fear of dreaming again, sleepless I must stay,
all I ever wanted, all I ever yearned
was to be a peaceful dreamer, love you sans return.
With that hope I fell to sleep, for days, for weeks, for years,
I saw our children playing, with smiles and far from tears,
I saw how we grew old, under the shade of the maple trees,
I saw how we disappeared, like ashes in the summer breeze.
But, before anything could begin, I saw how it would end
how a dreamer can only dream, and this life would never tend.
Do not wake a dreamer, I plead you for Gods sake,
for you may break his spirits, but it is his dreams you take.
One day you shall turn, look back and reminisce,
ponder something wayward, something gone amiss,
but all that you may lose, and all that you may gain
a restless night or two, an afternoon in pain.
But me, I lost my dreams, and though this life so true
I play with our good children, in my dream we wait for you.