Loss

That’s what is sad, all this hate,
Orchids bloom upon the dead bait,
Yellow drapes upon the tomb,
Shall we as well be forsaken soon?

That’s what is lost, all this love,
Flew away on a wayward dove,
Who upon the highest tree lives
And sings of golden apples and figs.

So why not we this day reclaim
That what we gave away for fame,
Famished thus we quietly lament
Our old benevolent mother’s scent.

Tried by fate yet fooled by luck,
Like we fed a depraved river duck,
For her fruits we coldly swept away
And stole her life, her night and day.

Cold breath on a summer’s night
Like a smile devoid of all blithe,
We ruse our way back through the hate
In a bid to undo our fate;

And as we march unto our death,
With our lives we enter a bet,
Wager our souls for past mistakes
In hope of winter’s snowy flakes,

But by hate we had our fates sealed
When we declined mother’s last meal,
Resting upon our resolves frail,
Thus we men forsake ourselves.