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.