Look upon the Royal Gardens
And see how the trees are aged
And starving, I have seen
Their bark shiver
And crack, I have seen
Their roots go rotten
And black, and in the frozen air
Flakes of wooden shrapnel
Drunkenly dance to the rhythm
Of the thrush’s melody, but
Even the birdsong has wilted
In the dull revelry
Of the tree’s passing, for

The holly bushes are few
And their berries no longer
Blossom from the flower, the
Thrush’s dinner is due but
The elm’s nectar has gone thick
And sour, and  

Where should the royal swans rest
If not upon
The shrunken coasts of ponds
That seem more like puddles
And by rivers that have gone still
And narrow
Making the water appear dead
And shallow, where then

Should they go
If only Hell is available ?

Down on the sun-bleached ground, treads a white wolf. Prowling
At the river bank, and seizing the land in which
He has left a deep dent. There is nothing left
In the streams, for they are no longer flowing
Like before. Destined by the bark and branch blockade
Perched at the river’s start. The water has fled, taking
The greenery and mirth away, bleeding out in dread.
The white wolf stares longingly now, hoping
Life forgives his abhorrent and
Disgraced growls.
But he forgets in this moment, that
His great biting jaw is to blame for the depressed landscape
Torn at the base of his grand griping paws.
His scent lurks in the hollow openings of trees, and loose fur
Lingers atop of sullen bushes like a covering
Of thin March snow. He has no say in what should be done now.
And like his distressed whimpering howl, he
Is thrown into the endless nights
Of this soon dying world.
Alas!
When white wolves walk, the skies
Sell their freedom.
When white wolves walk, trees sink
Into their soiled beds.
When white wolves walk, rivers
Stitch their mouths shut.
When the white wolf runs, the world
Is blinked into chaos.
And we
Must answer.
And we must answer.
They have left the earth asunder.
And we -
We must be better.

(And they will say,
You are a stalk without a flower)

A Spring without Easter,
Where eggs are never cracked
And the rabbits stay buried
In overgrown mounds, perhaps
The green grass forgot to wake up?

(And they will say,
You are a candle without a wick)

A crowded room unlit,
Where mirth is spread
But smiles can’t be seen,
Where joy is masked
And yet, is it not bliss?

(And they will say,
You are a river without a mouth)

Dry words converge only in lies,
Stories are poured
And ears **** in the vapour
That fills the damp world,
But do I not see tears?

Don't worry for the rich man
and,
   don't pay the man who worries

  oh dear, is it not obvious?

     that,

    neither can be enticed
   by the other's way of life.