Beautiful, drom. "....blood boughs..." for some reason, that caught my eye. You ought to publish yourself. Er, let me rephrase that. You ought to be published. You must be feeling good after your visit to the doctor.
Thanks, Letty!
I once actually was published, in Berlin; I wrote a book on German literature since the end of World War II with another girl, and I might be writing another one about Hungary soon! Yet, both of those weren't creative: the thing that I'd like to have published the most is verse or prose, and I'm going to try this November with the book and the poetry collection that I'm in the middle of writing.
Have you published anything, Letty? Would you? You have an intensely likeable style of writing; I think that you'd be received well.
Strangely enough, I wasn't linking myself to the wind; I wouldn't be so defeatist!
'Amaranthine'
Just recognise you are a rose
Amongst the grimy sands of time?-
You flower easily at dawn,
You burst, a flood of willing flame,
Namelessly flanking wild rouge banks,
Pleading for sun whilst goading rain.
The people smile, and craft dry sighs
To see you fool the restless breeze,
Your life's a passing haze of days?-
Yet, time rests on the thickened trees
That build their branches up to see
Dawn does not rest: it's wiped away,
As will you be: your roots can sway
And dangle down in summer's air,
But something stronger bides this phase
And waits for winter's bluish care
That sweeps and brooms the bowing bay;
So cold creep down your rattled roots?-
Unlike a rose, ?'though, you don't reach
That proud broad summer waits again.
You perish forlorn on the breach
Of nothing, torn down. You're defamed:
White, pillared people watch the lane
And speak of your short wondrousness
In summer long past, fallen shame.
