I may not call forth more than naught
of what hath been my morn and eves,
the scent of weeping lanterns as ought
should hath wept our ashen leaves.
Perhaps there were some tears or few,
of fate, of skies, I never knew,
but surely not of theirs ‘stead mine
were shed for memories good and fine.
Their perfume lingers still somewhere
‘midst still burning breathless breeze,
and naught but starry skies in pair
with rhambic shadowed mango trees.
Too much hast come, as much hast past
yet memory doth not tantam’ last,
to what end bathed my violet hill
such fruits of gold, but visceral.
For what is night to days of wander,
and what is day to nights in dreams,
solstice hearkens fall but yonder
thus life must flow anon it seems.
I may not call forth more than naught,
yet I dost remember mourning dust,
how heavy falls the silent unsought
while in its wake hear life we must.
Perhaps there were some tears or few,
for joy, for love, perhaps in rue,
but surely not of these ‘stead mine
lay there the wreath of bleeding vines.
Somewhere I left myself in passing
summer days midst midnight splendour
and all that lead to moments lasting
lead to moments such lasting more
as that which I then grew to wonder
of that day, that night in culmin’
I dost recall that solstice summer,
and that scent from trees that sin.
For what is night to days of wander
spent in wait for nights in dreams,
eternal is not thought or wonder
yet feeble is more life it seems.