03-07-2012, 10:26 PM
First edit:
I vaguely recall an old interview
with one of the Great War's last survivors,
approaching or passing a century's life.
His simple message was that we should love.
Like all of worth I suspect it's forgot,
and if I mentioned the article now
I'd be looked at as though I'd said I'm the Pope,
and that daffodils taunt me in French.
I hope the old boy died thinking his message would last,
and feeling at least that his family heard.
I picture them shrouded in white loveliness,
not quite understanding this strange miracle.
Original:
I vaguely recall an old interview
with one of the Great War's last survivors,
approaching or passing a century's life.
His simple message was that we should love.
Like all of worth I suspect it's forgot,
and if I mentioned the article now
I'd be looked at as though I'd said I'm the Pope,
and that daffodils taunt me in French.
I hope the old boy died thinking his message would last,
and feeling at least that his family heard.
I picture them shrouded in white loveliness,
not quite understanding this strange miracle,
that woodlands of love can blossom from shit.
I vaguely recall an old interview
with one of the Great War's last survivors,
approaching or passing a century's life.
His simple message was that we should love.
Like all of worth I suspect it's forgot,
and if I mentioned the article now
I'd be looked at as though I'd said I'm the Pope,
and that daffodils taunt me in French.
I hope the old boy died thinking his message would last,
and feeling at least that his family heard.
I picture them shrouded in white loveliness,
not quite understanding this strange miracle.
Original:
I vaguely recall an old interview
with one of the Great War's last survivors,
approaching or passing a century's life.
His simple message was that we should love.
Like all of worth I suspect it's forgot,
and if I mentioned the article now
I'd be looked at as though I'd said I'm the Pope,
and that daffodils taunt me in French.
I hope the old boy died thinking his message would last,
and feeling at least that his family heard.
I picture them shrouded in white loveliness,
not quite understanding this strange miracle,
that woodlands of love can blossom from shit.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe