MARTYR.
He waved his jests on spears of hidden grief,
Calmed by his silence all complaint and tears;
Filled hopeless hours with whimsical belief,
And laughed at fears.
He walked his bitter paths alert and bold,
No pity ever turned his steadfast eye;
If dull mouths grinned and goblin stories told,
He cared not why.
And with what end?
To end a dream of breath;
Singing his heart out to all withheld Joy,
Walking into the labyrinth of death,
Brave as a boy.
BALLAD OF THE THORN TREE.
Always, I noticed, lovers lay
Beneath a twisted tree
That grew in such a starvéd way
It seemed a mock to me.
But when I questioned them, they’d say
“Oh what is that to thee?
Bright berries grow in lavish way
Upon this bitter tree;
Small scarlet lanterns swinging, they
For lovers such as we.”
Always I noticed lovers dreamed
Beneath that furtive tree,
And so I said not how it seemed
Nor how it looked to me ...
How all along the branches ran
Sharp thorns like stabbing spears,
How when the berries dropped away
The thorns stayed through the years....
Oh, never do I speak of this
To lovers loving free;
The new fruit gleams above their kiss,
The thorns they will not see....
Mayhap after such glowing red
No thorn keeps agony,
But no fond lover ere has said
A thing like this to me.