Where are the keys, what wind
Snatched them from our grasp?
Another
suicide This morning,
Another eruption
That shattered
A dozen roses into bloodied dust--
That blotted out
Shimmering wafts
From a nearby flowerbed.
Shall I speak of what is lost,
Shall I tantalize
Our grieving hearts
With a fool's recollection
Of better times?
There may still
Be hope for
What could have been, if only
You recognize the colours
My words paint.
There was a time without weariness.
There were more gardens then,
And people
Took time to notice the trees'
Daily greeting:
Lacy branches embracing
A blossoming sky.
I remember when cities flamed
At night with stars.
Mingled with soft lullabies,
Mothers breathed velvet prayers
Out of gratitude--
Not despair.
At parties withered relatives
Contested in poetry
That, petal by petal, fell
From their lips.
I remember kites that mingled
With the butterflies,
Carrying our dreams with them
To kiss clouds
Keep this faith safe,
Let not my flower bruise.
Who can tell where tomorrow
Will take us,
Who knows where next the roses will grow?
And shall I--we--
Live to know?