Crippled is the will of unto whom is woe,
protests he in envy of all souls sleeping;
“Of what doth ye care, and why if ist so?
saved art thou from it, only ye dreaming.”
Fades the hour of whom it cannot wake,
thinks he in rebuttal of those who tempt;
“What canst thou yearn, for heavens sake
O if only ye dreamt, O if only ye dreamt.”
Sesame sprouts crumble the sweating dirt,
a summer breeze warms a valley’s breath,
brimming shores under the majestic sun
pave an endless river to all fates unknown.
Contempt has’t seed, and for loam, that nation;
windswept worthless by waste land’s whisper,
thirsting if not, then too drunk on privation,
to liberate the lesser souls from its elixir.
From wine, white to red, and ecstasy, only woe,
drawing now and ever, the tragic art of war,
to which hath fallen many, too many without foe;
souls of better men, whom contempt is not for.
I still hear the sound of its silent march
reaching and rising, that dark waters game.
Drowned the dreaming, it, always shall parch
my sore hearted throat, all morrows the same.
Tide into tide and into tide rolled darkness
until of what remained I could draw only death,
floating in my hours, in my gaze thoughtless
soulless those vessels of life sans breath.
There shall not ever, from that lifelessness
come to remembrance pasts visage untainted
nor shall emerge, from that endlessness
a hope which to hope may be acquainted.
Yet I do not mourn the many fields now lost
nor the memories reddened by the river of mud
not even my ones kindred or their life it cost
but the fact that I remained to witness the flood.
O Raise not thy gaze at a visage proud,
that be’est fate, my most ingenuous dupe,
set instead thy gaze at yon found
very end to which life must stoop.
Listen my progeny, as I know not of joy
so when’st thou giggle I feel only grief,
and might I add thou art a bastardly boy,
I abhorr thee at best, regret thou in brief.
Lead thou I may, but I swear not to days,
of enduring peace or of eternal wonder,
I merely lead, perhaps to uncertain ways,
and I only lead unto prospects under.
Argue of nations with lesser a founding?
inheritors least of morals in standing?
children that came at moments misfortune
yet fathered not same an era withstanding?
But see my rascal, the same is not true,
though if even it be, I do hardly agree
for agree I shan’t in opinions lieu,
and agree I must in opinions dreamt free.
If thou recoil’est at the sight of me,
I wish you to witness all that I hath,
what people unto people thus dole unto thee
the children of eve, the dogs of days wrath.
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.
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.
Valiant stand, our guards of honor, at dark gates
of resolve, valor, sovereignty. Albeit human
they are, and so are we, as their walls,
tirelessly adhering, towering eternal, never
lending shade to those seeking refuge but them,
never affecting fortitude, unto wars victims, but them.
From us are they, and from them are we,
they, are our watchful guardians, and we,
are their mishapen feeding futile hand.
What have we, that does not mock us in their favor,
and have not we, a say slightest, of whom we silence,
whom we befriend, whom we betray, thus, who are we?
Languid grows this hour of vigil, yet we are witness,
lions for lambs, we serve to darkness, but as witness.
Through days of tragic, but forgetful massacres,
we must now guard, our own selves, our own walls.
Let go must we, the faithful guard of fatigued loyalty
and too let them fade, in the obscurity of age,
for if we were, to have them serve further our purpose,
I fear, shall fall the empire that always willed to rise.
Abject night casts an embracing allure, especially upon those in slumber,
exhausted spirits, broken ego’s from yesterday’s sun drowning under.
Thickened blood, creaking spines, burdened minds of defeated men,
to let them sleep, or to wake them hurried is the dilemma there and then.
The truth is that every yawning sun is betrothed unto a borrowed moon,
and every dawn must surely break, for liberation is the only boon.
For now I watch the towers burn, I see my people in darkened homes,
while fearless and hungering, the hounds of war, rabid and tirelessly roam.
The monuments standing from centuries ago, stand witness to a dying breed,
and the heroes few and fallen now, patriots less than those in need.
The pantheon meant for vocal wars, a colosseum now for spilling blood,
and where once spoke outspoken men, rests the eternal uprising flood.
I say to skies that gaze in horror, do not weep lest you add to sorrows,
let my people dream and wallow, let them rest in darkness hollow,
they need not wake to the sound of war, for helpless they would stop and stare,
let them rest, perhaps they dream, of a brighter sun, without a care.
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.