Saturday, September 01, 2007

Elegy On A Saturday Morning

Elegy on a Saturday Morning

I will not go walking with you.
Not anymore.
Is it because you are dead?
I hear that
you are alive.

But only just.
You clutch at your chest,
Clinging to life,

Before keeling over
on the chaise lounge
In a fit of solipsism.
They got me, you cry.

The light dies earlier
Summer hastens to end.
And the time for excuses
For making amends
Is over. It is nearly Fall.

The leaves remain
Where they have always been:
On the trees
Sewed to the spines of books.
They wait for you there.

But to you
they are falling,
they are always falling
One direction:

The falling leaves
drift by my window
The Autumn leaves
of red and gold.

Les feuilles mortes
And all that.
Prevert, n’est ce pas?
Yes, I believe so.

You lived on his street.
You sang his song.

Oh! je voudrais tant que
tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux
où nous étions amis

Oh! The leaves are
not falling--
They are dead.
Les feuilles mortes.

This makes sense.

Bodies in motion
come to a rest.
We cannot go on forever.

And falling leaves
Will hit the ground--
with a soft sound.

Les feuilles mortes
se ramassent à la pelle,Les souvenirs
et les regrets aussi.

I do not care for falling leaves.
A rake for a rake
An eye for an eye
I am done keeping score.
Enough of gravity,
For I am grave.

And I will bury you
In yours.

Dust: bitten.
Bridges: burned.
Goodbyes: given.
Lessons: learned.

Miss Parker
you are
Welcome here.


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