It is very rare that I get this urge of patriotism, but today I feel like it. This one is for the place where I call home.........with love ofcourse.
Like a bone devoid of marrow.
Her frame stuctureless like a child's graffiti.
Her skinny boughs eerily streched out:
Like a beggar begging for alms.
She who is on the last of her nine lives;
Who despite the tired lines of age,
Makes the beauty of Saturn a chilish fantasy.
Of rolling hills and green pastureland:
This she is made of.
She who has been stabbed in the back
By her own flesh and blood.
Her leaves yellowed, her branches bare.
Those who perch on her,
Do so for reasons benign.
Close enough if you look n her bark,
Are scratches and inscriptions of years gone by;
And void holes left by the peckers.
Oh magnificent one that once was,
Who stripped you of your purle royalty.....
That his eyes we gouge out,His ears clip off
And if still merciful,
His feeble neck snap?
Who mighty queen....
Who has left you so desolate?
It is he who greets you with one hand
Yet steals from you with the other-
He whose soul is tainted scarlet,
He who raped you inside the sacred citadels.
He who you nurtured,you loved,you sacrificed for:
He who is your son.
Poetry by she
Read 772 times
Written on 2006-02-14 at 13:20
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Cry, my beloved country!
She stands-a silhoutte hollowed out,Like a bone devoid of marrow.
Her frame stuctureless like a child's graffiti.
Her skinny boughs eerily streched out:
Like a beggar begging for alms.
She who is on the last of her nine lives;
Who despite the tired lines of age,
Makes the beauty of Saturn a chilish fantasy.
Of rolling hills and green pastureland:
This she is made of.
She who has been stabbed in the back
By her own flesh and blood.
Her leaves yellowed, her branches bare.
Those who perch on her,
Do so for reasons benign.
Close enough if you look n her bark,
Are scratches and inscriptions of years gone by;
And void holes left by the peckers.
Oh magnificent one that once was,
Who stripped you of your purle royalty.....
That his eyes we gouge out,His ears clip off
And if still merciful,
His feeble neck snap?
Who mighty queen....
Who has left you so desolate?
It is he who greets you with one hand
Yet steals from you with the other-
He whose soul is tainted scarlet,
He who raped you inside the sacred citadels.
He who you nurtured,you loved,you sacrificed for:
He who is your son.
Poetry by she
Read 772 times
Written on 2006-02-14 at 13:20
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Andy |
|
liz munro |
|
Kat |
|
boy |
| Texts |
by sheLatest textsI dream PulitzerFalling out of love Tough Choices Do I really know you? Harmony |
Increase font
Decrease