The good have been a.w.o.l. for a long time
and the blue mood rules
Europe, making fury futile,
reconciliation necessary as middle-aged bathroom-
trips in the night. O big-hearted man, you could move it
though, in your day of beatniks - alone in your room with
the tape-deck, electric guitar, a drum-kit
and syncopated rhythms - with angry lyrics.
I mourn the news that you, too
have left the sham party, early, in silence. Your last night -
ironic lips, stilled; huge eyes, closing. The picture of you
slips when someone younger’s coming - it didn’t seem right
for my kids to know why this old hippie’s weeping,
given the mess they’re in and we are all leaving.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem