wordsout by Godfrey Rust   home I  


When we first came we saw the yellow field,

a crowd of faces turned towards a flame
We left them withered, ripe with summer's yield,

each head hung heavy as in pregnant shame.

Some people have their moment in the sun,

all eyes upon them in the big parade,

while others watch and wonder how it's done,

knowing only that youth and pleasure fade.

When days are no more met with expectation,

the dead not raised but only longer dead,

and time, once a forgetful dreamer now

a blind and ruthless tyrant, be it said:

nothing but love atones for all the lies

that beauty promises, and age denies.