Paradise Poem by William Graham
Paradise
In the misty mornings,
When the birds’ sweet calls ring,
I am filled with primordial dread
That the past is never dead.
Remembrance haunts us in the faces
We see—unwelcome traces
Of discordant conversations—
Of ill-advised consummations.
Can we not box up the past in paradise?
Put it where it will be chewed by mice?
Then there will be iron-hulled bliss,
Instead of your cold, indifferent kiss.
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4/17/2024 8:34:37 PM # 1.0.0.1119
