O grass at Flanders Field or Waterloo
Upon which clashed the feuding creeds
The blood of reason stained your veins, then flow
To ground below where end heroic deeds;
But grass! You covered all
You hid their bones and faults beneath your shawl
O grass at Wimbledon and other courts
Your gaze locked to the stars, stars of the green
And not of skies; what colors are these sorts?
As viewed below, perhaps, much better seen;
Or preference, you’ve changed
And be at guards’ parade the Queen arranged
There, quashed beneath the gaits of skirted Scots?
O grass, in parks, in meadows where game stalks
You are the feed, or turf for picnic spots
In lawns of Hollywood, or Broadway walks,
You’d wish you’re trodden down
By Britney Spears, if not, Paris Hilton?
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem