1.LEST WE LOSE THE SONG

Morning blush remembrance of things too painful,

Ours is torn garment with blood we’ve shed,

Horizon devoured by sounds of executions deafens too,

Skies consumed of smoke, fields eroded by rivers red.

As misty mayhems so cold drops,

On us to break the velvet ropes.

When rubble erupts and don’t subside,

Widows a nursing mother, she dies little inside,

Her sister’s cries melts into whimpering pleas,

The neighbours left for grave less a last kiss

And corpses of our men we unhung from gibbet,

As pyres of unordained crematorium sent lives to waste.

Arms that shared sandwiches, wine and bouquets,

Wincing in pain, wither in tourniquets,

And lost humane, drew swords naked,

Clubs, quavers and bows went untamed

By stabs of spear sons lost young lives,

By stabs of spear none of us survives,

For revenge is no meal served cold or hot,

But haunted, if we undo solidarity knot.

Shovel out, polarizing animosity,

And heap it up, to remains of antiquity

Illuminate not, our land with ruins of futility,

But with our roots entwined built nesta of safety,

Where birds of whatever plumage belong

And  castles of men of whatever twist of native tongue.

Arise! You and me, we go parade,

Bow violins, every string, melodies high,

With neighbours love that don’t fade,

Yet too scare the vultures to fly,

As we embrace unity of flock we go strong,

Lest we lose the song.

2.THE TABLE CLOTH

Somewhere in the royal suite

Embellishes a tablecloth.

Kings come and go, inherit and in death quit

But immobile remains this tailored art of great country men

The tablecloth that allows secrets to hide from long ago.

Spreading the table and losing hem with age,

The cloth that watch birthday candle light and die

Perfumed by aromas of palace’s delicacies

Bearing the burden of an ancient flower vase

Conceals the young king’s promiscuous hand

That holds the rose meant for the maid

The cloth that watch his palm below the table

Smear poisoned love on the Waiting Lady’s thigh

And salivate at the pudding spoon

From which he worships her reflected adulterous smile

A secret of them and the cloth, hidden from the queen

Who rests her breasts on it

To fondle the cardinal’s moustache

The table cloth allows secrets to hide from long ago

 Carries other memories

Memories of illicit love’s births

Memories that could tell a tale

A tale that traces a fatherless prince in the Maid’s quarters

A tale that can find the lost bridal ring on the cardinal’s bed