Crestfallen, cantering
down stumble avenue,
my lucky fountain was
outpouring youth.
About-face! I crafted
a curious inquiry,
endeavoring slyly
the avoidance of truth.
And then I walked on by.
Was it my worthless wince
that made you
hardly deign to reply?

My stomach oft knotted,
ink blotted, but you are
faultless and guiltless of
waxing and waning my
hopeless forlorn hope, my
bellowing attrition,
glazed over in glory,
trampled delicately
with innocent fashion.
Swordsmen leaping over
your bright scarlet ramparts;
wordsmen, in a white gift
resonating outward;
they hinted that my dream,
laced up in slack linen,
was daring enough for
your showered attentions.
...But only for a while.

In Scandinavia's oceanbound counterpart,
a sickly vested boy grafted his life into yours;
now empathetic reminiscence recalls
dry desert days 'neath a cloudless sphere,
as war ripped apart your homeland.
Among all the hubbub of upheaval unfamiliar,
tell me, you who are more worldly,
if I mean anything to you?