|Best Poems About / On ELEGY
An Elegy Of The Earth
I before my death,
An elegy of the Earth,
Which (after war)
Roodali of the Air will sing,
Weeping and wailing,
Sitting amid the burnt
The Decree of Death
Has been written,
On the pale forehead of the Earth;
Only time is to be fixed.
We are neither afraid of death,
Nor covetous for life,
We only wish to relish in full,
Our natural life before the final ruin,
And it is our right too.
If war is indispensable,
We shall fight it only for our existence,
For our dreams are not
The fuel for the wars being fought on rent.
Roodali is a professional woman whom the elite class of the Sikhs hires to lament on the death of someone.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
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Elegy to a Kurdish father
Elegy to a Kurdish father
for Ekim Erdogan
Alone in a green meadow I pray,
not on my knees but hands held high.
I think of the Kurdish girl in the London fog
her Baba is gone, the night has come.
Behind the East End walls a bluesy soulful note.
The cockney drink bitter beer, rattle and chat.
But she is not there, she is a continent away
for the Sultans ruled from Constantinople to Budapest
from Medina to Algiers
and in the muscle of the coffee the tendons of kabobs
there is a tone in her Babas voice, a light in a dark green forest.
The tale of the Kardelen
the Snowdrop, so shy, below the snow,
knows the sun fingers will smother its breath
so it hides, like the prized nuts of a brown squirrel,
in the custody of winters frozen soil.
Still, above ground,
the Snowdropp hears the wind of her lovers song
she longs and longs then rises to her lovers strum
but in a flash her petals gone
Yet in that second, that moment
when love was once again made new
the girl, well beyond the fog and pub dwellers,
hears only her Babas granite voice
revealed in the eternal romance of Kardelen
sprouting toward Spring, love and valor.
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The foul stench of burning flesh permeates the air,
Rotten, putrefying bodies lie in the baking sun,
Bright crimson death everywhere,
Frightened masses on the run
Wide-eyed terror on the prowl,
Africa rent asunder,
Can be seen Deaths scowl,
Sheer madness in Rwanda
Frenzied killing unabated,
A fevered orgy of blood,
Hate and bloodlust not sated,
A vile and incessant flood
Machetes a-glint in the firelight,
Dark night knows no end,
Rampant death beneath stars bright,
The victims souls ascend
Sculpted in lifeless repose,
Torn bodies and silent screams,
The legion of dead in abject throes,
Naught can ever the killers redeem
And, where must be asked, was the World?
When they were needed the most,
Why were their actions not most bold?
Why was saving lives not topmost?
And today, the land lies sullied in shame,
The rabid killers remain unbowed,
The dark pall of hate still silently aflame,
And beyond, a menacing cloud
But perhaps, as if from the ashes of the dead,
Rwanda can rise once more,
To assuage the blood, terror and dread,
And embrace Peace forevermore!
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Again Endorsing the Lady
Horace: Book II, Elegy 2
"Liber eram et vacuo meditabar vivere lecto--"
I was free. I thought that I had entered
Love's Antarctic Zone.
"A truce to sentiment," I said. "My nights
shall be my own."
But Love had double-crossed me. How can
Beauty be so fair?
The grace of her, the face of her--and oh,
her yellow hair!
And oh, the wondrous walk of her! So doth
a goddess glide.
Jove's sister--ay, or Pallas--hath no statelier
Fair as Iscomache herself, the Lapithanian
Or Brimo where at Mercury's side her virgin
form she laid.
Surrender now, ye goddesses whom erst the
Upon the heights of Ida lay your vestitures
And though she reach the countless years of
the Cumζan Sibyl,
May never, never Age at those delightful
Franklin P. Adams
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