Be Careful of What You Wish for

Be careful of what you wish for,
for a boulder may fall out of the sky;
the unfeeling world hears no implores,
the mighty captain cannot the whirlpool fight.

Be careful of what you wish for,
for eyes see not the imps being lured,
when cherry drips cling to childhood lores,
widowed we are from our truths conjured.

Be careful of what you wish for,
your valiant quest shall no one impress;
though untiring you are for the love you swore,
like the thousands who fell, like your stubborn demise.

Be careful of what you wish for,
for wishes are not what’s in store;
though unyielding you are for the beauty you adore,
the story ends by a dusty seashore. 

Be careful of what you wish for,
for wishes our treasures like to tore;
for justice our ideal has in faith inherited,
injustice from the Sydney rumbles we ignore. 

Be careful of what you wish for,
when wishes we have grown to abhor;
in the growling of the trains and torrenting streets,
we pay for our sanctity before a no-exit door.

Published in: on 15/04/2018 at 12:22 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Cemetery

Away, from the noisy streets, away,
he enters the tall, solemn gates;
before him the mud and dirt encircle
the green shrubs and the engraved plates.

As the army, in squares they stand,
if Vulcan had blessed her sculptor’s hand;
yet the breeze greets him with a gentle embrace,
the scent of soil and cedar, no perfumer shall trace.

A squirrel gallops across the rocky road,
the sweet grass fed by our ancestor’s abode;
the starlings cheer in this gravely refuge,
jolly songs accompanying a desolate ode.

Two squirrels play on that grey, decaying stone,
chasing around on the trunks of forgotten bones;
his childish eyes wonder at this ragged cone,
reminiscent of guardians he had for eternity known.

He paced along on these dusty trails,
murmurs from the past spoke of unspeakable tales;
in our fleeting souls hide history’s stains,
our ghostly friends forged our earthly chains.

Monumental — are these tablets of abandoned names,
and one day his own shall be ashed in flames;
‘O is that you, the great Prof. Dr. Dr.?
And won’t the children sing of you, Herr Mueller?’

His trusty giants repell the heavenly fires,
his dead friends serenade with silent lyres;
the comforting air of this barren art,
in peace he again finds his forsaken heart.

Published in: on 08/04/2018 at 7:13 PM  Leave a Comment