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