Amidst a flurry of dropping blossoms pale,
I watch these moth wings fragrant so much
turning white in a lifeless sail,
the arms and branches praying as such.
In wait for autumn, the progeny of colors,
while patiently all the watchful turn old.
Would it be too much, to envy the pallor
of fleeting lovers drifting in the cold?
An empty shade, with receding light,
another hour has come and gone,
another moment, the blossoms in flight,
fallen, found love, waiting, found dawn.
Amidst a flurry of dropping blossoms pale,
Have I questioned myself more or less,
and have I questioned myself at all?
Whether the blinded can even digress
to have seen the beauty of fall?
Or have the unhearing heard at dawn,
the dancing ripples upon the shore,
or can the mendicant forever anon
claim to have met a welcoming door?
If even now, and not years before
I put these thoughts before all else
Do I have the privilege to abhor
an insolent god that favors silence?
Perhaps I lost too much in life
to know the joy of rejoicing past,
perhaps I raise this chalice of strife
perhaps myself to imprecation I cast.
If ever love was a ripening fig
if bled from it the most purest breath
then fear I for this wilted sprig,
no longer do I mourn its death.
A world that walks to rest at ease,
and every wish on faithless word,
where may I find solace please?
and murder my dear mocking bird.
When the drops of rain shall deign
to cease descending on my land,
harken they shall not just vane
most sunrise but too days most bland.
Surely I shall miss most sorely
the scent of warm and humid earth,
and of my darling sweating only
to have my kisses fulfill her dearth.
Hard has been this monsoon dear,
dark have been my noons so grey,
but then I recall light so near
has never made more lifeless clay.
Pools shall linger, stand and wait
for all those steps of playful lovers,
wilted feet to warmth shall mate
and sun in greatest sight discover,
no more drops of earnest thought
nor ripple shall those mirror moons,
and all those days I dearly sought
shall depart with our last monsoon.
With every passing day and with each fleeting moment,
I see how my world is falling, falling down on me.
With every wailing cry and with each unheard lament,
I see how my world is falling, an abyss is all I see.
A garden of earthly delights that I once called my own,
the songs of muted angels, in an eternal reprise,
the shrine of euphoria supreme and its sovereign throne,
O! Departed days of wonder will you not return please?
For I remember my valley from a time of peace and love,
the olives grew purple dark and the meadows evergreen,
with flowers of war wilting beneath the abode of doves,
was this world an honest truth or nay!, a wishful dream?
Where once our monuments stood, on grounds hallowed great,
and lofty rose the aspiration of our nation just,
today they crumble down all owed to a deserving fate,
rest our mortal dreams betrothed to unfound dust.
The slowly dying embers have turned to ashes here,
and pains me how no different, they are from darkly doom,
for the rushing moment of today shall not hardly care,
shall not recall glory past but presently dying bloom.
My world is falling bit by bit, piece by piece, day by day,
and the memories of burning rain scorch this grieving mind,
the walkway to an endless dawn, a dawn though weary grey,
lights the corners of my dreams, for tomorrow must be blind.
Shall I take this step to further
my advance to the pavement yonder,
or rather end this indignant saunter
against this day, this day I ponder.
The merchant trading wine of hope
at this end has beguiled me too,
tasteless it stood in elope
unto my palette, famished grew.
I hear salvation tastes the best,
sold when aged with despair,
yet bought it is the dearest lest
sweetest affluence fails to care.
Shall I venture this walk of fate
to greater hopes from broken dreams
I can not know until too late
it is to change this walk it seems.
Shall I cease but for a while,
have not these eons burdened years,
and despair come in bleak exile
thus made salvation rest so near.
Shall I turn to where I came
from and to where I need return,
what can not I have, so I feign
I can not lose, so do I spurn.
Art can never change the world,
it can never make the veil unfurl,
indeed it can make them stop and stare,
for a moments notice in sweet despair.
In that fanciful limbo someone may think,
perhaps it is art that has sought the brink
of all the anarchy that does prevail
and made it wonder to its avail,
but art only patronizes the anarchist,
and like ignorant children the artist,
may paint or write or speak his sense
but he does so for he knows nothing else,
and people they adore the poems of treason
but the truth is, life has no such reason.
The poor they live for a loaf of bread,
the faithful hang on by a breaking thread,
the thinkers write words for those they pity,
and sell those words to the ruling rich,
the painter can draw of the needy and gritty,
then auction it off to the greediest bitch.
You talk of art and some impending change?
you speak of people as if you know them all,
but when you shall know how artful range
hardly aides the weak in fall,
feel free to show the abject grim
mortal for whom art is but colorful fray,
and fanciful wordplay means naught to him
for thou art useless, art, thou art grey.
Shadows creep on the desert floor,
beneath the sullen stray grieving sky,
betwixt imprudence, this insidious amore,
Hark! O wasteland, thus you and I.
Every now and then at fringes,
of my red and dripping sight,
Fallen angels grasping torn pages,
on dunes of sand do just alight.
What read thou, O lifeless leaves?
which way doth my war earn scorn?
for whom doth thy dear holder grieve?
is it I, of roses the hurtful thorn?
If even so, I could not give
the slightest care for mortal law,
of war I breathe, and death I live,
of hate I love, and I its flaw.
Before you embark on a war today,
you must be wary of its alluring spoils,
like hopeless men that stand in wait,
and helpless women with tempting gates,
while your enemies with their unsheathed weapons
march towards you as if in a trance,
for I know it must please you to feel but heathen
and but lose yourself in the devils dance.
The smell of moist flesh in the rot,
the taste of blood now on your mind
the sound of ending progeny in the hot
flash of rage and the raging binds,
tumult of blood lust, and vengeance true
but remember war has the darkest hue,
there is no grey, but only black and white,
and regardless of what you think is right,
those that kill one are but savage,
and those that slay thousands are the generals,
but who do you fight for, murder and ravage,
a war that is yours as much as the gull’s,
that pick the skin clean of the dead,
and wash their wings in the sea of red.
Is not this burden but yours to carry?
and those you follow but careless very,
order you to stand your ground,
before the horns, and before the sound.
The trumpet blows for you my soldier
the bell it tolls for thee not them,
the mother that attends the funeral march
is not of theirs, but yours my friend.
True your enemies are just as blind,
true they are enemies nonetheless,
but foolish before and behind the line,
both as foolish, you must confess.
Remember the day you left your love,
in tears with no promise of coming back,
you picked your helmet, wore your gloves,
the burden you bore, you thought would crack
the backs of thousand horses and more,
the protection of your sacred land,
heavy it was the burden you bore,
until you saw what war was and
until you killed those sons of whores
and earned a medal for every stain,
so you felt no guilt and raped their women
shot their children in all disdain,
spurned their legacy and left to weep
the unfortunate mothers who gave them life.
Another day in the land of ruin,
you squeezed the life from another dog,
and searched his corpse for some more wealth,
but found on him just a writers log,
and in it written some words obscure,
addressed to his wife and mother poor,
“I fight for a better tomorrow,
and peace is a fleeting dream
but from the ashes we shall borrow
the heat to mend our broken seams”.
You dug him a grave, and buried him there
in a place so far from home
only yesterday he stood with his army here
and today rests here all alone.
The worst part is you did not know,
who he was or what he believed in,
but you both fought for some one else,
and there in lies your greatest sin.
Beware my heroes, the folly of war
the words of leaders and all their lies
they make you fight and watch it over
until all sense and morality dies.