Blue Beauty Of Lilacs

Blue Beauty Of Lilacs
© Surazeus
2024 03 31

Though my words map strange journey of my fate, 
I grow into weird person I design 
who hides behind plain story of my soul 
so people see the myth and not the man 
who sits on quiet Sunday afternoons 
and dreams his family safe in walls of hope. 

Though false blue beauty of lilacs reflects 
deep color of our ancient homeland sky, 
I walk in misty woods of timeless hope 
to watch young orioles hop on eager wings 
in backyard of my home where lilacs bloom 
from graves of nameless kings who rule no land. 

Though elms shade streets of little crowded shops 
where laughing children buy marbles and kites, 
ghost of the prophet who foretells our doom 
walks slowly over distant hills of stone 
to find abandoned home where I was born, 
and smell blue lilacs blooming from my grave. 

Though wind blows hair of lovers by the lake 
who eat green grapes and cheddar cheese with bread 
on white sand of the beach where waves gleam clear, 
I watch them choose to share romantic love 
that overflows their hearts with awkward joy 
as they kiss in the yard where lilacs bloom. 

Though blue lilacs first in the dooryard bloom, 
I listen to song of the midnight star 
to celebrate ever-returning spring 
that urges souls with passion to express 
desire to rise from helpless ache of love 
since all we cherish will perish in war. 

Though harsh surrounding clouds weep in despair 
at unjust death of millions who deserve 
to pursue happiness of their pure hearts, 
I free my soul with painful offering 
at vision that each new-born child of time 
is miracle of life transformed from death. 

Though sacred Death walks ever by my side 
as I explore strange mystery of this world, 
I glow with passionate desire to live 
while we hold hands in cool transparent night 
to change our woe into pleasure of love 
as we create life to transcend our death. 

Though solitary thrush hidden in woods 
warbles ancient song of desire for life, 
we seek lost graves of people killed in wars 
to write their names in hundred thousand books 
that crowd blue shelves of vast library halls 
where lilacs bloom from sorrow of their words.