A seed once fell onto English terrain
Where wars had thicked the soil with much blood;
And its roots struck deep into Satan’s brain
On the side where feeling and melody bud.
And it thrust through years like a rebel army
Though deserted by sun and the rain close behind;
And a luthier culled one of its strongest rami
To craft an instrument with Segovia in mind.
Now the southwind spurs its belly, and there rears
Chaliapin, Sinatra, Caruso, all capped
By a song that crowns like cream the milch tree;
And a dark and haggard dryad appears
From a bole and croaks it is Clapton trapped,
And by the soaring topmost branch set free.
Love Eric, and i can hear him singing Laila...and i remember with profound sadness his loss of a child from a hotel window! Again, brillant! Theo
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wonderful tonite.................i shot the sherif.....that guy is a legend