I can recall a time before the age of tears
time when nights were short and banquets went all day
time like a garden
time like a bouquet
As I would hold a flower, so I held you near
You [bad word] that flowers wilted in this place
So cut off from their roots, they'd only go to waste
Then you would say 'forgive me'
I would laughingly foresee our future bright within our cut-glass vase.
Back at that time I would have loved to be a poet
And like Appolinaire sing to your lilac eyes
But how the time was short as it went flying by
I loved you that was all and never thought to show it
I didn't beg the muse to bring me poetry
I didn't count my fingers or polish the rhyme
I loved you nothing else it isn't such a crime
The poem of your body was enough for me
It was before the age of tears
It was a time when flowers were mine.
The flowers on your bedside table slowly fade
On your way to oblivion, you are fading too
I only want to lie a moment here with you
As [bad word] a canticle that's most profane.
With the help of these flowers let me find the way
To sing of your dear body perfectly portrayed
First take the chrysanthemum
Burning like the anthem of your hair the colour of an autumn day
Then moving down the face that worry can't attain
Across your forehead to the thicket of your brow
Your Venus fly-trap eyes are hungry waiting now
To [bad word] to morning glories after rain.
No, rather talk of columbine, of flowering thyme
Of blues that turn to grey, of colours never dared
The morbid mauve of clematis is to be found there
Let me embrace the sad horizon through your eyes
The colour of before the age of tears,
time when tears were kind.
Remember there within the creases of your ear
Preserving you from harm are sweet forget-me-nots
And when your anger takes control of all your thoughts
An iris petal pulses at your throat just here.
Those sudden fits of anger swept across your face
Just like a storm across the tossing fields would race
And then a peony would grow whose boiling blood would flow
When you bit your lip in a burst of rage.
You see I think of you and flowers just appear
There in your spreading blood a field of poppies grows
The reds of your body answer me like echoes
When I cry 'flowers' the word 'blood' is all I hear.
Red - the heart of narcissus that your stomach bears
Red is the golden fleece and red the peaceful glen
Red - the carnation which so bewitched Verlaine
Red is your , an endless red [bad word] Passion has drowned in the age of regrets and tears
The age of tears.
I cut your life short as I would a flower stem.
Without a second thought, I stripped your branches bare
I drank the water, dried your flowers without care
As I behold your death my head begins to spin
This body that I loved - this flesh that tempts me still,
Will suffer prayers, procedures, and assorted ills
bouquet on [bad word] heap
I find I'd rather keep to flowers made of taffeta and silk.
So give me lilies made of pearl or made of tin
Dead autumn leaves and plastic roses by the score
I must convince myself as I keep gathering more
That the language of flowers is no longer living.
There, there, don't worry. I'll be still. You mustn't smile
To hear my song as sad as a December day
It's more than time to throw these rotten flowers away
Then let me stay here in your room for just a while.