A Last Poem for London

Oh my faithful love, I can write no more
Fragments of our conversation, melodies of love
No more speak of flowers, rose gardens and flower bedecked dresses
No more morning breeze, scents, colours and dizzy dances
Alas! My love
The ruler of our destiny has decreed
That no one may utter words
Or even think forbidden thoughts
Not to his liking.
I hear that now every wayside place
Each lovelorn road, each highway of hope and alley of dalliance
Is patrolled by the warriors of prohibition,
Those appointed to keep us in their eye,
To follow our very thoughts
And spy into the deeps of our heart
Alas! My love, alas,
The elegant city has become desolate
Dusk lights heavy with fear, the air full of threats
A scent of blood on the wind, and hate in the dying sun.
Unspoken terrors beset us on every side
The shadows of dead souls pass through us
And our hearts are cracked, if not broken.
Suddenly all that is familiar is strange
And choirs that sang in harmony out of tune
The law stands guard at the entrance to our hearts
And every footfall is laden with a curious silence
We are suffocated by the dust of suspicion.
Every hand conceals a threat; the knife lies in every sleeve
Faces that smile seep suspicion
And the demon is awakened from his unquiet sleep.
The chambers of desire and longings are locked
Each moment is filled with apprehension
What can we make of plans that lie in ruins
Of these bad days that mark our fate
I fear for my poems, for if words change their meaning
Who knows what shapes our words will form
In this city stricken by terror.
I am afraid. For if the ruler of the city
In this season of oppression thinks my words are suspect,
I, the poet of low degree, may find myself punished
I am afraid of my own thoughts and feelings
The vaults of my thoughts an d the dreams of my eyes are full of fear and dread
My desires are cancelled, terror has entered my heart
Fancy is dispirited and my pen is trembling
Alas my love…Alas!