To the leaves that turn in our tide,
to the thorn that bleeds in my side,
to that angel in whom I confide,
and that demon with whom I preside
on the council of will, and decide
what all senses incessantly deride,
while the time and the life I divide
regardless of fate coincide.
To the wind that changes the season,
and changes that dawn without reason,
Hear me my people! with lucid intent
I am a scoundrel, I yearn for descent.
To indolence whose borders are wide,
to sloth and to greed your close guide,
to lust which you bed as a bride,
and the raging war from inside,
to love, loss, wounds and to pride,
as well morals in red hanging dried,
to your laws by which you abide,
yet question their purpose beside.
For the taste of mortality I did attempt,
thus fell from my throne I a discontent.
Hear me O’fallen, embrace and consent
mould me as flawed, lest I lament.
Wishful thought I O eternity thyne ,
now do regret I tasting such wine.
To heal that wound on this soul of mine
I feigned being blind to our rising sign.
Beyond horizons which were once in time
twixt fatuate virtue and vice benign,
from remnants of grace but thoughts malign
to fall this under I did not resign.
And Adam and Eve, of your legacy fine
forgive thee thy children for fates design.
Hear me thus progeny, ill fated and wronged,
in pursuit of some feeling, living I longed,
but Remember forever, from this parted sun
sans death all mortals immortals are one.
Regardless of our presiding congress
of victor man, and thoughts unbound
flagfallen is that white of progress,
viridescent hall in conquer found.
Hath O babylon eastern promise
come thou burning from yon Babel,
Hath thou aired suffice thy solace
solace for whilst thou air’d a fable.
Heed my words ye crumbling throne
thou wer’t not birthened to condone,
instead for sins of past atone
and honor wounds of wars unknown.
For nations many thrive some whither
flags of fathers rise then fall
but ye my wounded land of hither
thou wert sworn for just and all.
Embrace yet not these words but words
of better men, of bitter wisdom
as all professed else is absurd
and thoughts thus kept are kept anthems.
Pray, would it be much to hunger
for absolution, taste of clemency
Speak, for regrets tear asunder
ignorant faults from thoughtful pity.
Lo! A Wasteland we turned thou to
In legacy false, of prospect gloom
and starved hath We thy faith in few
and fewer days in an age of bloom.
To place a price is merely common
upon a life that breathes but merely.
Shan’t we not then venture keeping
our lives instead of morals sold?
Scarlet I must always turn to
scarlet of burnt summer eves,
golden flakes of passive heaves
dirt and dust which redden hue
of wine’ful taste, scent’est henna
unto’ich spake the flowers of war,
naught a reason they grew for
but which due I dub them scilla.
Drunk on fallen dew their’s yonder,
memory mine is tempt to wander
far from this sweet valley Wana
fragrant as deep scarlet henna.
Passing I must always turn to
passing suns in mournful too,
fading fragrance with each noon,
to Hearkened dark, O! come thee soon.
Of where to has trodden darling
and where hath joy trodden to,
scent no more, no more of parting
henna burning summers through.