The lilacs bloom,
In the citadel,
With its minaret,
And walls many stones high
Forefathers of mine having cracked,
And carved initials into their midst,
With their faith and ritual sacrifice.
Those same damning thoughts
Are like a carousel,
Spinning year after liturgical year.
No ponies to ride,
Only crosses to bear.

As Delilah would do,
So has been done to me,
In celebration of each rotation.
My newly shorn locks
Inspire a keen intrigue,
Child-like almost, in my elders
As they have already
Lived what is to be.
“Ah” one sighs, one sighs,
“To be young, to be young
And to wish to join the Mockturtle’s jive.”