The Unforgotten

From here when I see acres of green grass
With bushes of mulberry mounting,
Few white swans and monuments of brass
In the wilderness are now haunting.
I will not forget nor forgive,
The voices in mutiny or muttering
When my yields are burnt in silence.

Why write if my ink is not my blood
And my thought is not of this age?
My verse will not be mine if feelings flood
Not with memories of the crimson days.
For each battle we fought and finished
I will not forget nor forgive,
Brutal lives in the burrows so tarnished.

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On the wings of a dead Pelican

This morning when the Sun screeched,
I was standing alone on the shore,
Feeling the cold dead wind from West.
The sand was slippery with sundry weed
Scattered here and there and more.
From far I saw a dead Pelican at rest.

The wings dipped in our errored oil
Had hope like human hearts and soul,
Beating for a flight so needed now.
I like a scarecrow gazed the soil,
The sky so cursed and air so fowl,
To guide gush to this tearful show.

On the wings of the dead Pelican
There is silence so soft, so dark,
Like an epitaph on the sands of time,
The treason kind will hear this rhyme.
I will from here not hope, nor hark
But with patience feed one more Pelican.

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