The rose of Buxtehude
opened her bud one morn:
it seemed I had encountered
the rose without a thorn.

In every word she's saying
there is a scent of spring,
in every smile a Heaven
of which the poets sing.

Her pale pink lips bring sunrise,
her vivid eyes have wings.
The thorn I found much later:
her absence is what stings.

From the corner in the lounge
I watched trains arrive, depart;
when I left I realised
that in there I’d lost my heart.

Later I went back to see
if I’d find it in the nook,
hoping that she might have lost
hers as well and come to look.

My heart is a lake which is hidden from sight
by the Hills of Convention that keep out the light
of the sun, but at times when the wolves howl their tune
the valley is lit by the light of the moon.

And my mind watches over the hills and the lake
which is never asleep and is never awake;
he’s a watchman who won’t interfere, but he’s bound
to keep record of all things that happen around.

And my eyes are two priests who would leave me behind,
very often I’m finding myself hard to find;
my heart is a lake which is hidden from sight,
but I know you went skinny-dipping last night!

Our love is deep: let's deepen it
by following its tracks;
why do you have to cheapen it
by saying 'It's only sex'?

Our bodies and our minds unite
to be so strong and free
that there's no other world in sight
apart from you and me!

As you are my excitement's source,
I am the might you need:
inseparable is this force,
established by our deed!

The strength of Psyche and Physique
opens a universe
for only us in which we seek
our passion to disperse.

And when Life's greatest powers thus
create the unit of
two individuals like us:
what else is it but love?

We feel, we know we burst the bars,
expanding Time and Space,
and once our love has reached the stars,
all things fall into place.

Before I kiss your breasts and brow
and all the rest to sleep,
just raise your head and tell me now:
which part of it is cheap?

It is quite common that a girl
should offer one a fag,
but very few are free enough
to say: 'You want a shag?'

I glance at you, you smile at me
to let your mind be known,
and though we both may think the same,
we'll both walk home alone.

Freedom of Speech does not exist
amongst woman and man,
for what the government allows
society will ban.

A heart of gold and wings of alabaster,
like cirri that surround the sun they shield,
you have no servant and accept no master,
a flow'r amongst the flowers of the field.
You are the eye of poets as they pass,
as singular as those who bloom beside you in the grass.

You are the spring of lovers' dreams and visions,
you are the summer of the joyful mind,
you are the goal of butterflies' ambitions,
and where the jaunty country maidens bind
their chaplets to salute the age of light,
you mirror the empyrean, so radiant and bright.

You are the smile of Nature as she renders
her gifts to every living thing that sees,
you're Cytherea's herald that engenders
the feeling of a passion and a peace
no man should live without, and where you grow
the lovers have no need to ask, for they already know.

You beam with humble pride when you're adorning
the hands of happy children as they store
you in a vase and water you each morning
like many generations did before.
Since Time began you haven't changed your form
and face the sun the selfsame way you face the thunderstorm.

At the Rose Garden no one can enter
lest he wants to be torn by the thorns,
we admired its flow'rs from the distance
in the light of the morning of morns.

From the path which we thought was deserted
a young man with grey hair we saw come.
He walked slowly, his eyes were cast downwards:
we had never beheld one so glum.

'He is Life', one was breaking the silence,
'and he suffers because from his hand
everybody receives joy and pleasure,
but he knows it must come to an end.'

'He is Angst', said another. 'The burdens
of mankind, every pain, every fear,
he must carry, and yet he is conscious
that he will not make one disappear.'

'He is Hate', claimed the third. 'Though he's calm now,
though he still is enduring the stench
of injustice that others committed,
he will soon start to think of revenge.'

They turned round and awaited my judgement;
I was thoughtfully shaking my head,
and the tears in my eyes gave the answer:
'Only Love could be ever that sad.'

Black cocks, a few toads and whatever they are
she'd stir in the soup which is thicker than tar,
her warty old finger would write on the brew
the letters which only her foremothers knew.
Into the grimy pot she'd stare:
'It won't be there, it won't be there!'

He'd look in the mountains, he'd seek in the plain,
be scouring the desert again and again,
he'd turn every stone and examine each rift
until he'd sit down and regret that he lived;
'Where is it? I've searched every where!' -
'It won't be there! It won't be there!'

The Lord of the Gates, with a questioning look,
would tell him to wait and then open his book,
and as he would ask all the Heavens above:
'And when did this man get his portion of love?',
he'd hear a raucous voice declare:
'It wasn't there! It wasn't there!'

The tentacles of winter grab
the gentle breeze of spring,
and with an icy steel they stab
the swan’s auspicious wing.

They firmly take you by the hand
and, wrapped around your neck,
declare you’re cool and you’re their friend
and pat you on the back.

Their friend you are, I know it well,
so follow them and run
to clutch the icebergs of their hell
as I await the sun!

And no one knows, and no one knows
what happened in the moor,
but where the rose of torments grows
wait graves for rich and poor.

And no one hears, and no one hears
that petrifying yell,
for where appears the queen of spears,
no one will live to tell.

And no one feels, and no one feels
the anguish of the lad:
with iron heels the lady steels
herself to crush his head.

And no one sees, and no one sees
her kneeling in the mud:
a gentle breeze now blows to please
as she sucks up the blood.

The poet will never believe what he sees:
I have never been loved, but of course
I torment myself with the memories
of the days when I thought that I was.

My soul must recall how I kissed my last love
till another girl tear it apart,
for still it is better to suffer from love
than being dead at heart.

Love is a savage master
who'll take it all without
consideration, faster
than you can raise a doubt.

One glance and he'll expect you
to serve on bended knee,
one fling and he'll neglect you
but never set you free.

A woman's silence, the Prophet declares,
is very much like the dress that she wears:
we don't pay attention to what it conceals,
too occupied staring at what it reveals!

Once I will ask the Creator about my fate, and he will
answer: 'Didn't you know that I have made the Poet to
love and the Rose to be loved, not the other way round?'

Once a middle-aged admirer
came and challenged Atalanta,
virgin huntress, on her hillock
to a race; 'You know the rules:
if you should win, you're free to claim my hymen,
if I should win, I'm free to claim your life!?

She was leading, but her suitor
suddenly became a stallion,
and he gathered speed; the huntress
dropped some sugar lumps along
the way. The stalwart stallion stopped to savour
the tasty treat and thus was left behind.

At the river she awaited
her competitor and, lifting
up her spear, she aimed precisely,
but her challenger declared:
'You cannot claim your prize. I am immortal:
I'm Zeus who never lost a race before!'

Atalanta turned around and
walked away with a contemptuous
look while Zeus, with eyes cast downwards,
clenched his fists in agony;
in aeons he had not felt that embarrassed
and prayed no one had witnessed his faux pas.

But behind the hill the painter
and the dramatist were watching
with the poet, and they could not
help but artify the scene
of Zeus mortification; not much later
the whole of Greece was laughing at their god.

Ladies pointed at the picture
of the painter in amusement,
and the mortals were in stitches
when they saw the comedy;
the poem took the country like a bush fire,
and children sang the ditty on the street.

Zeus came down again to sentence
them, and he addressed the painter:
'You shall never make a living
with your art', and then he turned
against the dramatist: 'Above this judgement
your name shall not be known while you're alive!

'As for you', he told the poet,
'you have spoiled my reputation,
and for you I have another
punishment on top of these:
through you my shame will always be remembered,
and therefore you shall never taste of love!'

Enraptured by her vigorous beauty,
I mount the wingéd horse; in turn,
as if she read my thoughts, she tells me
to write in verse how much I yearn.

And after ordering my poem,
the minstrel's wellspring of delight,
the priestess of my animation
collects her things and says goodnight.

She claims her fairy godmother only
allows her charge to come to town
once in a month, but before midnight
she must be back to hit the down.

I know that if I was her guardian,
her happiness I would pursue:
she would stay up till after midnight,
and she would come more often, too!

She claims to be Maud Gonne, surprised that
I know Maud Gonne had been the maid
a man who considered himself a poet
badly wanted and didn't get.

So I sit down and write a poem,
although I know I have no chance:
no man has ever gained a woman
by writing poems in advance.

I go where all the insolent
manasters play their tricks
and, boasting 'bout their lives, intend
to importune the chicks.

Their mouth wide opened and their eyes,
not to be closed again,
they chat and smile and idolise
this parody of a man.

They faint as he presents his comb
with overweening phlegm
until he finally goes home
with one or two of them.

The others want to cut their throats,
they chat and smile no more:
they fiercely grab their scarves and coats
and leave and slam the door.

There is somebody dies of thirst
beside the fountain's spout:
it's always those who need it worst
who have to go without.

A sombre rainbow in black skies
deluminates the sable rose
where my tenacious raven flies.

The spirits of the night arise,
and dusky storm clouds now disclose
a sombre rainbow in black skies.

As Charon sits on deck and sighs,
the murky Stygian current flows
where my tenacious raven flies.

I trace his journey with my eyes
and wish that I could trace the crow's;
a sombre rainbow in black skies

Ushers me to its end - there lies
the full allowance of my woes
where my tenacious raven flies.

I know the news this scene implies:
the vision of my future shows
a sombre rainbow in black skies
where my tenacious raven flies!

I wish I had a shiny crystal ball,
and if I'd rub its surface with my thumb
I'd see the things that happen now and all
the many things that are about to come:

Not to divert the course of History
or to find scope that Future holds in store
to make a bit of money; just to see
if there'll be anything worth waiting for.

Loneliness is the dungeon of King Life.

The prisoner walks up and down and up and down
and down and up and down and up,
from left to right, from right to left,
and wonders what will happen next.
He knows already: Nothing,
nothing will happen.
Nothing will happen in a million years.
There is the well. It's deep; only one jump,
he thinks, could end it all. But a minute later
the warder might come in to tell him
that he was pardoned.

He walks from one side to the other
and back again. Sometimes he plays with
the torture instruments around,
maybe because there's nothing else to do,
maybe to find out if he still exists.
He feels like banging his head against the wall
all day and night, all night and day.
But he knows it wouldn't help.
There's still the well...

He hears the music and laughter from the ballroom upstairs;
maybe somebody there might remember his fate
and send for him.

Fat chance of that.

His thirst for water is being quenched, every now and then.
His thirst for Life - never.
There is the well...

Once in a blue moon he hears the door creaking open,
allowing a few rays of sunshine into the dark,
and hurries to get there; maybe his petition
had finally come through.
How long ago was it he wrote it - months, years, decades...
As he stumbles forward, he hears voices behind the door
which then is being closed again.
There's always the well...

And could there be a ray of light
to brighten up the hidden glen,
to let the flowers bloom again
and end the perpetual night?

And could there be a ray of life
after all hope for it has fled?
As unkempt Reason shakes her head,
my heart feels stabbed as with a knife.

And could there be a ray of light?,
I hear my daydreams' ceaseless chant.
Experience proclaims there can't,
but still my heart insists there might.

When early in the morning
the sun is shining in,
my unrequired companion
will wake me with a grin.

Wherever I am going,
wherever I may be,
my unrequired companion
will spend the day with me.

When later in the evening
I look for company,
my unrequired companion
will have a drink with me.

After the pubs are closing
I dread the night when he,
my unrequired companion,
will go to bed with me.

Rain keeps knocking at my heart,
hardening with every blow
as its kernel falls apart
and the ashes cease to glow.

The day is bleak and bleak the night
in which my gods embark,
and every fleeting ray of light
intensifies the dark.

No home below, no home above,
I roam this barren mire,
continuing my search for love
like a salmon his quest for fire.

Rain keeps knocking at my heart,
hardening with every blow
as its kernel falls apart
and the ashes cease to glow.

Wrung hearts are passed from hand to hand
which drain their energy,
and every time they are convinced
they found their destiny.

Wrung hearts pray for the morning dew,
and full of hope they greet
their temptress; then, too dry for tears,
they muse on their defeat.

Wrung hearts will not believe in man
nor in a god above,
but still they trust in every vow
of everlasting love.

Wrung hearts seem sapless like a rose
that withers on the stem,
but there will always be some life
you can squeeze out of them!

Is it that I am too naive
to know when I am being used,
then suffer afterwards and grieve,
seeing how badly I've been bruised?

Is it the lack of choice? For that
is why I answer every kiss,
having to take what I can get,
refusing to see the obvious.

She lies! She lies! a voice inside
would holler at the highest pitch;
I used to gag it when it cried
and forced myself to trust the bird.

- I am a male, but still I might
learn from mistakes I made before:
the voice that tried to set me right
will not be silenced any more!

I've had enough! While it still beats,
I put my prostrate heart at rest,
and after decades of defeats
I cease my unavailing quest.

The Queen of Tantalisation
has ventured to enthral
the Emperor of Predation,
and he obeys her call.

The flurried Queen is shaking -
the conqueror fulfils
his threat by firmly taking
a tight grasp of her hills!

Her plain despoiled and raided,
her city walls on fire,
her valley is being invaded
by the army of Desire!

Welcoming the aggression,
she must submit, and then
the regiment of Passion
will march into her glen!

Wedged between palms, the temples are
pressed by their deity
who's due again to reinforce
his rule and tyranny.

The votary kneels on the ground,
her eyes are opened wide;
she moves her lips in worship till
her god will come inside.

One-nightress, you have brought me one solution,
and you created yet another myth:
you made me want another contribution
and cleansed me of the last thing I was with.

                               - EVERLY BROTHERS