mercredi 19 mars 2014

My Wasteland



MY WASTELAND


April is not the cruellest month.
I would welcome lilacs springing
    from my barren soil.
But the buds wither before opening,
    the earth is dry and barren,
    the drops too few and meagre.
The wells are dry, the towers crumble
    in Syria and Ukraine.
I listen for the thunder but
    no voice comes to me.
My soul lies fallow and I long
    for the fruitful years,
    in this violet hour.



19 March 2014

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