Conflict of Heart

What love demands so high a cost That this winged troubador wandering wide Finds no rest, nor precious paradise lost In cool valley or sunny mountain side The miles grow longer each empty day But flowers few are suddenly gone away And fickle females finds them fresh And littered in their rooms and brazen arms Cuddled against fragile desire of flesh Vanity matches with their fleetive charms O yet it is allergy season, these will in decay Define our human reason to the honey bee dismay Where have all the flowers gone is not a song It is a complaint against the killing of trees And the barren earth where once rose bush throngs It is love of self that robbed the mumbling bees Spoil the troubadours song, and saddens day The flowers are gone and no butterflies play Let lovers give themselves as true and only gifts And heal the broken hearts that bitter on lips Wail the callous countless cluster of human rifts The bitter wine that sweet love often sips Love is the gift of self, let flowers freely stay And the honey troubadors sing their songs all May.