Memories have become
My enemy,
As I wander, lame,
In the greying fields.
And though the sight of tulips I endured,
Straight a pace, I kept,
Lost in the gardens.

Where I was found,
Another man was there
Gazing at the crowd: Of myself,
Thousands.
Each of them
Taking their chances alone;
Each in his own separate affairs.

The white lily buds
Bloom
Acrid flowers.
Where once
Joy I found in the encounters,
I find now
Myself: An empty bosom
With unquenched longing.
I find this hard husk.

A beetle burrows through the grains of sand.
In brief descents,
Each grain reflects the sun;
They fall regardless of their qualities.
I know what it is
to be that beetle.

I know what it is to relinquish dreams,
To hand the batons,
To young men
Unknown.
To face Him who aspired to be
Me.
To show him
Properties of destruction.

And many a men ago
I was free
To go and handle
The red thorned roses,
To find in them their nectars
Sweet,
Not cruel.
To see what one seeking beauty
Would see.

Surra,
January, 2024.