Thursday, 19 June 2014


Tell me Elegist,

Why do you write of such mournful things?

Why do your sentiments fly on ravens wings?

Why do you peer with eyes so very doleful?

Why do you scribe of sentiments woeful?


Tell me Elegist,

Why is all your ink, the wept tears of the dying?

Why put your words where Ancestors are lying?

Words rooted & rotted, upon ivy-garbed stones,

Giving life to the flesh, of those buried deep bones.


Tell me Elegist,

Why do you scribe of dusty old loves unrequited?

Of corpses dead, doomed & by death deep pitted,

Belying Bishop´s told tales of hell, so sadly infernal,

Lifting from sadness old souls, now free & eternal.


Tell me Elegist,

Why wax lyrical of all that is murky dark gloom?

I write of reality beneath bright suns & old moons,

Why write of ills & of all that is merely all strife?

I write only of truth & of death, which is in fact life.



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