The Guitar
T Tom Billsborough
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The Guitar's lament beginning.
The Dawn's cups are breaking.
The Guitar's lament beginning.
Useless it is to silence it.
Impossible to hush it,
Its weeping monotonous as water weeps,
As the wind weeps over the fall of snow
Impossible to hush it.
It weeps for things so far away.
Sand of Southern warmth,
Asking for white camellias.
It weeps... arrow without a target,
Evening without morning,
And the first dead bird upon the branch.
Oh, Guitar, heart so badly wounded
By its five swords.
Bu şiiri puanla
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