The Man In The Grey Frankincense Suit Poem by Walter W. Safar

When the scent of a flower dies down,
There are no longer any fragrances in the world,
Just the bitter smell of frankincense,
Like the earthlings' testament
To a country betrayed;

Where the feet of the greedy man tread
- of the self-proclaimed keeper of civilization, homeland and mankind,
There is no flower
For the world's heart,
Just the echo of ominous slogans of conquerors and tyrants,
Sowing the seeds of the dark in the crevice between light and darkness;

When a pharisee strikes with hatred
At the heart of faith and in the name of faith,
When a tyrant treads upon man's freedom
In the name of mankind,
Demonic fires are passionately dancing inebriated in the arena of life,
Like a seductive harlot dances her last tango;

When the cold wind of solitude arrives
From the white mountain peaks,
From the golden sand dunes,
Down in the valley of tears
- in the shadow of a wooden cross,
in the shadow of a green crescent -
A new flower is born,
To shed dewy tears on the deceased love's grave;
To leave its trace in the sands of time,
For new hope to rise in the eye of the sundial.
In the scentless golden chambers of sovereigns and tyrants,
In the black togas of corrupt judges,
In the dark bottomless pockets of corrupt politicians,
In the grey suits of mediocrities, sycophants and pharisees,
A barely visible white cloud is creeping
Like a faithful servant of conscience;

Like a faithful servant of eternity,
The proud and glorious wind is travelling
To the north, the south, the east, the west,
To scatter the lonely poet's verses onto mankind's palm;
You, who are treading upon mankind's dreams
In mankind's name,
Can you imagine a flower
Crying for the world?

Abandoned like a rootless flower,
Like a rootless oak,
Like a starless night,
Like a tearless eye,
A man devoid of love and compassion
Is but a reflection of stale air in life's tomb.


A man in the grey suit of a tyrant,
A man in the grey suit of greed,
A man in the grey suit of a pharisee
Is a man in the grey frankincense suit
Who listens to the fog whispering on the grave of his conscience
In eternal fear.