Where have the lilacs gone?
Are they with the belladonna
that bloomed when we were young,
before the truth was known,
before the side effects,
before the taking of remedies?
We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,
I met a hermit where a stream diverged,
passing the hours and the minutes of day
and honing his whit he stopped to stretch, and said—
How could we
leave you at the shore,
or forget you
or the image of those little boats.
My vast kingdom, larger than France and Spain
led a crusade against conquest and genocide,
I did not have birth right, nor did I take it by sword,
Some say the times are changing fast,
Some say they always have.
Let the elite country clubs become grave yards.
Come and erect the boards,
and let low the noose, and let known the deeds
Among the worlds most pressing ruins I have seen
artifacts come rising as phoenixes
to part their form from the fierce driven wind
and sand that whirls around in its dying
We wish to be a king not free
of the autocrat or tyrant’s
immortal knee on our airway—
easier to be chained than change.
This rusted throne of kings, this gilded smile,
This divine right of blood, this gift of sight,