04-02-2018, 06:03 AM
Love Conquers All
In this field, nothing grows
and we remain
year-after-year stiff
as scarecrows in the cast-off
clothes of our parents.
It would be natural
to blame the moon,
which hangs limp
in the sky, suspended
between life or death,
a condemned convict,
an unblinking witness
like the flickering bulb
above our bed.
In this field, nothing grows
and we remain
year-after-year stiff
as scarecrows in the cast-off
clothes of our parents.
It would be natural
to blame the moon,
which hangs limp
in the sky, suspended
between life or death,
a condemned convict,
an unblinking witness
like the flickering bulb
above our bed.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson