An Elegy To Abandoned Paths - Poem by Achilles Mauko
The witty pages by the sword of the modern poet is fallen
The natural musings by the inks of a young poet left barren
Of these dog days, shall we not bid the whispering wind?
To make haste and for the solemn farewell dirge lead
For in forlorn times like this, a poem to the beneficiary,
Is a rose, a beautiful flower in a cemetery
The modern poet knows not the panther's paths,
Of silent solitude and nights of darker darks.
And words loathing such blatant ingratitude,
Has deprived the young poet of infinite solitude.
The mysterious existences, whose life endures,
The winding foldings of a river's contours.
Once upon a time, in a world such as this,
When fame was base, and knowledge such a bliss;
Mighty was the pen upon a poet's hand,
As a straying river to a bending bank
Elopes the sand with wanton streams,
Quenching its lust to lecherous schemes.
Oh! Such times I do reminisce, when occasion sits;
Soulful pages I did caress, of poets so full of wits,
Blushful bachelors wove our aphrodisiac verses
Into rosebuds; the hairless loins of virgin lasses.
Coy ladies that did hear our kissing sonnets,
Were half won with verbal ease and less regrets,
A poet's death made the sun long for the grave;
Shortened life as the funeral tears of the great,
Rebellious robins mastered our songful lines,
Feeding upon the unwatched farmer's vines;
Inks of freedom did water the veins of liberty
To give revolution, the stature of immortality.
Luring flattery, did make the peacock's feathers stand
As words of wisdom, did wind whisper upon the land
Young is me; Longing is my old soul for an elixir of life,
Of deserted paths like the forgotten story of a former wife
Now doleful moments dance to the woeful chimes
Of wounded pens that attends our barren rhymes
Of facile writings, inks in search of tears of oblivion
As the melancholic moon bleed colours of vermillion,
Let the creepy night owl play it a teary rustic lore,
A demoniac laughter to mock its sweet years of yore
Be blue gay lily
Blossom into dust
The coy maiden knows not your colour,
Weep sweet blushing rose
Wet your withering countenance
The slothful lad knows not your beauty
Rest old poet
Rest your tiring soul
The young poet knows not your winding paths
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