Innocence
Every year the fields of flowers
Giggle in the wind’s ticklish waves
As approaches these monstrous plowers
And gather the pretty things for vases.
Grown with delicate care, the best fertilizer,
Admired in awe of their youth and budding, shred apart before they could grow wiser;
stolen before withering age comes trudging.
Father came knocking at their shores,
higher still the Netherlands stacks its doors.
Nervously wasting rotten dirty soil
Building walls against their own foil.
Each year the flowers now live a little longer,
So let us raise their beds a little higher.
