the ills i sorrow at
not me alone
like an arrow,
pierce to the marrow
through the fat
and past the bone
your giref and mine
must intertwine
like sea and river,
be fused and mingle
diverse yet single,
forever and forever.
let no mand be so proud
and confident
to think he is allowed
a little tent
pitched in a meadow
of sun and shadow
all his little own
joy may be shy, unique,
friendly to a few
sorrow never scorned to speak
to any who
were false or true
your evey grief
like a blade
shining and unsheathed
must strike me down
of bitter aloes wreathed,
my sorrow must be laid
on your head like a crown
2007-11-09
05:10:41
·
1 answers
·
asked by
Sabrina M
1
in
Poetry