Window

It's been almost exactly twenty years since I wrote this piece. For the sake of amateur historians, this is the original of a poem which can be found in the college magazine for that year. Which college? To some, it will be obvious.

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Old roses locked up in old rooms:
The older, the more concealed
Are oftentimes in better tombs,
And much the easier unrevealed.

I am alive on sea-surface;
My fins cut surf, ploughing waves.
Hard-yielding sea-waters displace
Windy underwater caves.

Beneath searing sky, sun-scourging,
Walk sand-endless dunes of pain,
Mirage and hope tired merging
With reality, each grain.

Long journeys, far roads, dark nights trod;
Broken faith, dead hope, old love;
Dreaming knights, slain dreams, dreams of God;
Black heights, cold stars all above.

Below lies the valley of keys.
The rooms should not show again
What we hide. And do not release
Old roses precious once to men.

1984