They are less yellow than I remember,
The narcissi veiled in parallelity
By the black iron gates.
Down this footpath they go,
And I pursue its cobble's academia
To which I learn nothing from.
O perilous is this path,
Genesis and its depression!
Nothing more and nothing more.
The narcissi face each other in bundles,
Like bonny nosegays;
Pairs and pairs of them!
They marry one another in ceremonies,
Laughing at me,
Huddled with the other weeds and tree roots.
O how they laugh at me,
Brought to life and forever personified
By the parasitic cogs of my mind,
Like a frightening sickness
Of radiation blighting this city.
It must be the air here.
The winter months are always cruel ones,
and o the misery they bring!
How the sight of watching
Everything go and go,
Unfaltering, this radiation,
And those laughing flowers
Is nothing but trouble.
I hate it all,
And I have just lost someone again.
Therefore they-
And everything else-
Will start to laugh.
It is evermore,
The consuming air,
And it grows more crisp and crisp,
And I fear if I sniff wrong
The air might explode,
Turning me into ash
With the married narcissi
And give me their sickness.
O how I want to pluck each one
Out from the root,
So they can be alone,
Forced to walk the cobbled paths I do.
Perhaps it will make them look into
Their own reflections and beg and pray
As I do for it all to go away.
O do not be sad,
They will always grow back,
And they will always have
What they had been looking for.
But it is not the same is it?
Ironic, great yellow irony!
Maybe the coming of spring
Will do it itself.
I know I should not tamper
In their lives as I do everyone else.
O the air, it always comes in the winter
With the narcissi,
And so the consummation
Begins to find my own great narcissus.
Irony, irony,
I can taste it,
Like a silent narcissus, silent
Among the other marrying narcissi.
