My life is finally safe from sorrow.
All my dreams are ripe,
The smoke pours from my philosophical pipe.
The fields will be less ripe tomorrow.
The roads of mud where the cannons were dragged,
To fire on the enemy from the hill
Are dry paths.
The landscape is still.
My debts. What are debts?
Someone else will pay.
Isn’t that what we always meant by one fine day?
I always had what it takes.
A little soil and sun,
Wheat. The grinder grinds and shakes.
My sons and daughters
Have read enough.
That creative stuff,
Despite what I said, has gone by.
My children are filled by other containers.
I gave. They are giving.
I died in them.
Now I’m living,
A small light fading in pastel skies,
Looking for stimulation and song.
Is it ripe? Is it ripe?
The paintings? The golden fields?
Everything is ripe. And still it is wrong.