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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required First you march through fields-- Green, but choked with weeds. Until one day chance drops the Bomb And the world explodes before your eyes. Never have radar eyes seen beauty Like this, the fire lily in spring, Pyrotechnics bursting forth from petals And the sweet napalm nectar heart. Tender small hands Softer than pillows of snow-- Look with adoring eyes, but never touch. Such miracles are easily shattered. Next you must be silent, soldier on through sun and sleet. Look on with a distance at her still. Sip vineyard wines and lob grenade glances As the summer’s smirking captain burns her, And she is dying of a most miserable thirst. But I have no water left in my canteen… Lost, but such a thing gained From naval expeditions into the murky brown twin pools That shimmer like umber ghosts in the raining moonshine. But leave before sunrise—the place is forbidden For men of such stature, of such a character. Step aside for the hulking boars, Who will pluck each of her lovely petals One by one, and stamp them dead in dirt. Then be still, self-appointed guardian. Polish off those beers and brood. But be ever alert should she call. If the invasion comes, the only gun She may have to kill is you. Accompany her on breezy walks Attempt to humor, but disclose no more. Simply hang in gardens of babble on and on Where the only words you speak are Sanskrit to her. And when the cavalries of autumn winds pillage through, She will have nothing to shield her from the beatings. So close, I am still too far away, and would give away my position out in the open. Remember the gentle beauty, her voice. Every laugh, every lethal saltwater tear, Every moment you would kneel beside her And be more tender than Mother Nature herself. But at last when winter comes you make the choice For she needs a man to keep her warm The night grows cold, the stars smile sinister the field is buried in the blackness of time, that awful plague without a cure. You may dream to storm the frosty beaches And pluck her from her very roots; Take her off her feet, in hopes Of saving her, the only fire lily in the field. But with a frown, she bows her head Turns away, withers and dies. The fire lily in spring, there smolders In cigarette ashes. So you stay under cover, and leave the field, Afraid to turn and look again. For time has worked hard for months Building the atomic bomb That verges on exploding in your heart.
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