That Was When The Ones Who Smiled

Now No One Will Listen To Songs. The Prophesied Days Have Begun. Latest Poem Of Mine, The World Has Lost Its Wonder, Don't Break My Heart, Don't Ring Out.

A Land Not Mine, Still Forever Memorable, The Waters Of Its Ocean Chill And Fresh. Sand On The Bottom Whiter Than Chalk, And The Air Drunk, Like Wine, Late Sun Lays Bare The Rosy Limbs Of The Pinetrees. Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

Not, Not Mine: It's Somebody Else's Wound; I Could Never Have Borne It. So Take The Thing That Happened, Hide It, Stick It In The Ground; Whisk The Lamps Away.

All Has Been Looted, Betrayed, Sold; Black Death's Wing Flashed Ahead.

This Land, Although Not My Native Land, Will Be Remembered Forever. And The Sea's Lightly Iced, Unsalty Water. The Sand On The Bottom Is Whiter Than Chalk, The Air Is Heady, Like Wine, And The Rosy Body Of The Pines Is Naked In The Sunset Hour. And The Sunset Itself On Such Waves Of Ether That I Just Can't Comprehend Whether It Is The End Of The Day, The End Of The World, Or The Mystery Of Mysteries In Me Again.