I once saw Death himself Across the river banks, Bound by flood, he stood near oak When its trunks caught fire. Scared, I extended arm to a flower And it spoke to me: "O poor tree! It stood there like you and me, Waving trunks in wind it could But now it's gone for good." I then reassured the flower: "Worry you decidedly should not! You will be safe from Death So long as mighty fire Had not yet learned the ways of air! And water, too, is beyond his power Contrary to their firely desire." That is, to first learn–all And destroy–all it requires. Then, I continued: "In any case, I can simply pick a shovel And dig you out of here alive! I will later put you in a pot, After all, you're pretty short..." Flower momentarily protested: "It's so classic of your lot, To treat us as–if we were conquered. Piss off now and you'll be fine, Or you'll regret it in short time." Afterwards, I put it in a pot. Will it now seek revenge? Surely it's not; where men ravish, In parley, with feathers flying Left and right, in a fiercely fight To themselves—a plan o'cunning, They one to another would be carving... A man who with but no chagrin, As vice yarns fee fi and smells of rum, He thirsts for blood of an Englishman. Cossack soul, whose blood that is Fluid, red and just as thick with sin. The fight is unavailing! In a corner of a sill, below the attic The flower silently stood static. While my darkest fears, well-packed Distinctly and distraughtly frantic, Were slowly begging me to differ As to whether if the silent whisper Clicked and clacked to form a dither. "The flower, oh dear flower... You're not free, but safe in here From Death, from the deadly fear!" Now, what's the matter with them odds? They aren't doing me a favour. However cruel had been done the deed, There's perverse satisfaction to it.
Published: Monday, 15 Jun 2020