Dismounting, I offer you wine.
And I ask, "Where are you bound?"
You say, "I've found no fame or favors;
I must return to rest in the South Mountain."
You leave, and I ask no more
White clouds drift on and on.
*
When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.
*
sleeps unaware of the clarion call
Posted: Thu Apr 03, 2014 1:46 pm
by IanEye
*
april, come she will
when streams are ripe & swelled with rain
tell her to find me an acre of land
(on the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves)
parsley, sage, rosemary, & thyme
(washes the ground with so many tears)
between the salt water & the sea strand
(a soldier cleans & polishes a gun)
tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather
(war bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions)
parsley, sage, rosemary, & thyme
(generals order their soldiers to kill)
& to gather it all in a bunch of heather
(& to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten)
