By orwell on
Saturday, January 1, 2005
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Without affirmation or denial
Does the world mean what can be said?
For who can be forgiven, when in the end
There appears so little salvation?
For was there a gift in your promise?
When the idea illumined the delicacy
And the delicacy was an idea born
Not from despair but, from great joy,
Are there yet times and themes redeemable
From the savage unsayable soliloquies,
Of that persistent fight whose pulses
Quiver at the flames immense nerve
Where flowers, of incandescent yellows
Are left by schoolgirls not born to remember
The significant act done against the grey
Rain, of concrete memorials who names
The countless dead, are namelessly executed?
On this winters morning, nothing is denied
For nothing can be affirmed, where the flowers
Lie too close, thereís no salvation, only numb forgetfulness.