Burnt Roses
by Gail Riordan (wander@dnai.com)
Custodian in Residence of Qui-Gon's Library of Poetry
Characters-Rating: Q/O - PG
Category: Poetry, Angst
Summary: More processing of grief. Shakespearian sonnet.
Warnings: Sort of spoilers, hanky alert.
Archive: Master_Apprentice, anyone else please ask.
Feedback: Please!
Disclaimers: All things TPM belong to George Lucas.
This poem belongs to me, but I'm not making any money off
it.
(c) 10 February 2000
In memoriam Thierry P. Sloan, 5 July 1957 - 10 Jan 2000
Burnt Roses
O time-burnt roses droop, their cousins ash,
The dust-dark petals curl, leaves fade & fall,
The daisies die, all withered by the lash
Of heat and human need, both gift and pall.
Here busy hands have smoothed cold brow and cheek
In wax repose, false peace now folds those hands
And closes eyes and lips; clay cannot speak
Nor answer what a living heart demands.
What wound was there that too long unstaunched bled?
(Thou wert well loved!) What was't could not be bourne?
And how to say farewell when spirit, fled,
Has left behind such youth to stand & mourn?
All pictures in the pyre: futures, flowers burn
While we remain, to live, to grieve, to learn.
Gail Riordan
10 February, 2000
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