Revision 31/10/15
Dear Oscar,
I have sent a rose. It is
not red, I fear, for I can find no thorn
that's sharp enough to press my heart against.
Each night I dream of jewels uncovered by
the picks of men who bleed beneath the sweet
blue tent of sky – a blistered hand is soft
against the cheek of tyranny. Your palm
has cleared the path for asses; in your throat
you store the elegy, unsung, for men
who walk the hills of memory, but stand
behind the walls of law. Behind the blind
and crowing cock, whose dawn is lost to light.
Today I met a clown; I broke his wing
and set his heart aside to wait for spring.
Dear Oscar,
I have sent a rose. It is
not red, I fear, for I can find no thorn
that's sharp enough to press my heart against.
Each night I dream of jewels uncovered by
the picks of men who bleed beneath the sweet
blue tent of sky – a blistered hand is soft
against the cheek of tyranny. Your palm
has cleared the path for asses; in your throat
you store the elegy, unsung, for men
who walk the hills of memory, but stand
behind the walls of law. Behind the blind
and crowing cock, whose dawn is lost to light.
Dear Oscar, rest: your words have taken wing
and though our giant's gone, he lives in Spring.
Dear Oscar,
I have sent a rose. It is
not red, I fear, for I can find no thorn
that's sharp enough to press my heart against.
Each night I dream of jewels uncovered by
the picks of men who bleed beneath the sweet
blue tent of sky – a blistered hand is soft
against the cheek of tyranny. Your palm
has cleared the path for asses; in your throat
you store the elegy, unsung, for men
who walk the hills of memory, but stand
behind the walls of law. Behind the blind
and crowing cock, whose dawn is lost to light.
Today I met a clown; I broke his wing
and set his heart aside to wait for spring.
Quote:Original Version
Dear Oscar,
I have sent a rose. It is
not red, I fear, for I can find no thorn
that's sharp enough to press my heart against.
Each night I dream of jewels uncovered by
the picks of men who bleed beneath the sweet
blue tent of sky – a blistered hand is soft
against the cheek of tyranny. Your palm
has cleared the path for asses; in your throat
you store the elegy, unsung, for men
who walk the hills of memory, but stand
behind the walls of law. Behind the blind
and crowing cock, whose dawn is lost to light.
Dear Oscar, rest: your words have taken wing
and though our giant's gone, he lives in Spring.
It could be worse