Tuesday, April 19, 2011
THE OLD BROWN ROSE
To a land that knows no retreats
To faces that show no lines of defeat
To the rum, the cheese and the chums
We think we own, we feast and we treat,
Let us spare some time for a reprieve
Now, later is never better.
You forget the scent of your garden
Never knowing they bloomed in you
Long ago once.
Scorn, mistakes, pride and illusion
You have become an old brown rose with
Nothing but thorns as tawny.
So come and kiss this star a goodnight, father
For ephemeral is not a black hole’s
Best trait ever …