The Child to the Fields – An Ode.

The tearing hearts rhapsody of which you cannot comprehend,

Hear the cry of escaping clouds against harmonies of sunset.
A familiar melancholic haze begins to transcend,
Against the highway of this cosmos is a child’s silhouette.
This is a place among the azure of wakeful sleep,
Hidden within the tender pace of a sedated sigh.
She is stained by the bloodshed of silent war;
The daydream of idealism has left its wound deep,
Just as the scars of cynicism torment her eye -
In this melancholy stillness echoes the child’s cry.

From their unceasing highway the escaping clouds look down,

On the frightful rhythms of an everlasting play.
They hear amongst the dances and riots of a ghost town,
The distant melting footsteps as the child runs away.
These footsteps chant an abandoned prayer,
A plea to be anywhere but this dreadful pretence.
The clouds do not know the incarceration of the human form.
Oh Child, your damned soul will never leave this snare,
The illusions of this kaleidoscope will be your tomb,
Watch the clouds drift away in transitory dance.

Oh Child, they have made a slave of your tears,

No matter how much you cry, you cannot pause time.
You will forget and forgive over the passing of years,
Of the damned thinking mind that was your crime.
Lower your kaleidoscope; now you must descend,
To see the amblers in the gloom no longer sing for you.
Or, escape with the clouds in the torture of a daydream,
In the agony of your naivety you can pretend:
That the oceans lustful sway is danced for you,
That the suns sorrowful singing is not a requiem.