written on the death of a girl who never knew i loved her.
For flowers wither to bloom-not again
Forget the pain, my boy, forget the flowers
Immerse yourself in bliss for some hours
In the street there is a cold dreary lull
I fear that mankind awaits another fall
No, no, it's merely the hamarttan my dear
Tuck in tight tonight, you've naught to fear
But the skies aren't blue as they used to be
And Mood feels heavy, like a treacherous sea
T'is not so, you are ill, have some cheer
Here, I have a tankard of port to spare!
The faces are ashen, with furrows on each brow
Pray, why does that woman beat her breast so?
Some private sorrow, it none of our concern
Come; let's be away, to the Irish tavern
But I see a bier laid out by the tide
I never did know that anyone had died
Must be the old lady down at the mill
Come lets go in or you'll catch a chill
Ah! Old Lady was old and without hair
The girl who lies yonder is young and fair
Young as sentinel hills on the plateau
And fair as fields evergreen and skies ever blue
Oh, the Virgin curse this unhappy day
i am unwell, I must leave, must go away
Alas! T'is Ohige, she lies upon that bier
My poem, my flower dies, so does my fire
Oh Muse! I love her dear as I've loved you
Pray, in her sepulcher, is there place for two?
Poetry by richard ugbede ali
Read 1204 times
Written on 2007-02-13 at 17:13
Tags Death Sadness
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la morte d'ohige
My pen is heavy with the pulse of painFor flowers wither to bloom-not again
Forget the pain, my boy, forget the flowers
Immerse yourself in bliss for some hours
In the street there is a cold dreary lull
I fear that mankind awaits another fall
No, no, it's merely the hamarttan my dear
Tuck in tight tonight, you've naught to fear
But the skies aren't blue as they used to be
And Mood feels heavy, like a treacherous sea
T'is not so, you are ill, have some cheer
Here, I have a tankard of port to spare!
The faces are ashen, with furrows on each brow
Pray, why does that woman beat her breast so?
Some private sorrow, it none of our concern
Come; let's be away, to the Irish tavern
But I see a bier laid out by the tide
I never did know that anyone had died
Must be the old lady down at the mill
Come lets go in or you'll catch a chill
Ah! Old Lady was old and without hair
The girl who lies yonder is young and fair
Young as sentinel hills on the plateau
And fair as fields evergreen and skies ever blue
Oh, the Virgin curse this unhappy day
i am unwell, I must leave, must go away
Alas! T'is Ohige, she lies upon that bier
My poem, my flower dies, so does my fire
Oh Muse! I love her dear as I've loved you
Pray, in her sepulcher, is there place for two?
Poetry by richard ugbede ali
Read 1204 times
Written on 2007-02-13 at 17:13
Tags Death Sadness
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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