O William Shakespeare, o ancient bard:
How now do I so treasure the answers you once possessed,
Which now rot and like you were eaten by worms (themselves already eaten) in the sodden earth,
Which resounded once to you in the voice of immortal guides reflecting in whimsical sonnets, muses whom even you lost
Which rolled off your pen like leaves from the tree of your life, not a single one wasted,
And which now lie on paper, immortal dead words that cannot be revived.
Why can the light of love no longer be reflected RGB off the crystal of infinite knowledge?
Why don’t words and poems, hunters in the immemorial game of love and life, capture souls?
Why doesn’t the bird sing out loud the secrets of winning my love’s heart,
But rather sing only the gay songs of the days to come without showing me any part of their paths?
Why did you leave poor Allen to howl, a queer in the night, with only problems and no solutions but socialist rantings?
Why did you leave the poor teen lovers to pore over poorly done romances, always cliche?
Why can’t I just go to Uncle Billy’s buffet and gorge myself on the foods of life?
And why do you leave me here to address your shades, long decomposed, and wander the lonely banks of forgetful Lethe to try to remember your wisdom?
(Honolulu, April 2002)
Adam Maruyama
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-s-lament/
