Lament of a Soldier Son
(for Patrick)
Sadly, it is not the aromatic lavender I remember
That suspends me in this mystifying languor,
But only the sweet, deceptive oleander —
As deadly as it is fragrant —
That cunningly deceives me into believing
I walk among the flowers of my mother's garden.
Oh, to know such blissful tranquility again!
Here, when I lie, I lie in fear
In parched and withered deserts.
No verdant fields gracefully swaying in the breeze
No mellifluous birdsong awakening me from sleep
No dulcet tones of wind through pine
No misty rains to cool my heated brow
Only longing and ephemeral dreams of home,
And that wicked perfume of wild oleander
Wafting through the unsettling sands of Afghanistan.
No comments:
Post a Comment