On the Broken Old Oxcart

Words and knives remain of two accords; Cuts and bruises poison our skins As the sulphur in our words corrode our hearts; Staples and stitches hold our parched hearts. Every leaf browns at the feet of its mother As every raging wave dies at the shore. Laternless, a jading flame sits in my heart that never dies Snow will fall white, birds will migrating south Blood will run red, but this flame will burn blue. Music and its blues speak to the soul But love and its fingers touch the soul; And the wands in my fingers change what they touch to gold. When I fill the mellow of your palm with a bouquet I know that stars are fireflies, millipedes are trains and ladies are butterflies. For every endeavour rises its dust, every joy brings its tears, Friendships are two-way streets Courtships are metros of less travel Matrimonies are roads of no ends And us are beginnings of no end