The War

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This poem is about a man who is torn between his would be wife and war.

 

 

Daisy, my rose, I shall come back home

in a rickety bus or in a mourning cloak.

 

I promise I will come one night,

if not in life then in a massive ruin.

 

I will come to touch my holy land

and have the soil spread

about my silently sleeping bones.

 

When you shall see me dead as cold,

pour the country’s healing water

on my chapped lips and my retiring soul.

 

I shall not break my breath

until I had seen you last,

but I would never tell a single being,

whose bullet pierced the red of my heart.

 

Perchance I died in the going war

and could not be brought to Daisy, my rose,

I shall die from a broken heart

and not the metal gushing in my soul.  

 

If never did come back I, riding this horse

or winking at the little girls ambling by the roads,

 

"Oh Daisy, tell me you will cry a little,

turn away at the sight of food

and endlessly cling to my left out clothes,

 wondering did I ever love you."

 

And I promise you Daisy, my Rose,

if this man, whom you call your beau

comes home intact, flashing and singing hoarse,

 he will bring a wedding ring along

And marry you before the September’s gone.

 

 

 

 

 

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