WHAT WE CALL ITSome face their death in wars abroad,I face mine here at home--It is imaginary, towardWhich every thought must come.Yet in another, further sense,It has been left behind,As like a screed in somnolenceClosed off behind a blind.My duty I must here perform:It would be derelictionTo go into the war-zone´s harm,Per heaven´s interdiction.And yet, events of far awayBreed in me endless sorrow,That I may not, as festive, gay,Play like there´s no tomorrow.Tomorrow has been stretched uponIts frame as any canvas,But not for painting--as though done,And we, its merest envoysPass through the vacuous galleryWhile footsteps clack and echo,Drawing a meager salaryAnd calling it art deco.
Speak to me!
WHAT WE CALL IT
ReplyDeleteSome face their death in wars abroad,
I face mine here at home--
It is imaginary, toward
Which every thought must come.
Yet in another, further sense,
It has been left behind,
As like a screed in somnolence
Closed off behind a blind.
My duty I must here perform:
It would be dereliction
To go into the war-zone´s harm,
Per heaven´s interdiction.
And yet, events of far away
Breed in me endless sorrow,
That I may not, as festive, gay,
Play like there´s no tomorrow.
Tomorrow has been stretched upon
Its frame as any canvas,
But not for painting--as though done,
And we, its merest envoys
Pass through the vacuous gallery
While footsteps clack and echo,
Drawing a meager salary
And calling it art deco.