A Lilac of the Field

He was born on the green coast of Greece,
and it was a cold wind
that blew him here,
to this Puritan land
where the satyrs chatter
and their flute song
is all but drowned out
by the factory bell.
Though he followed The Dead
and never took root,
though the outside of his cup was often dirty,
especially when in his cups,
he was a true lilac of the field.
They say he was violent in his fleeting flowerings;
They thought vulgar his unmitigated shade of purple.
I can't deny these things,
but never was a flower sweeter or a friend more generous.
Though he wouldn't have seen the wisdom of breaking a babe in two,
(Sadly enough, I do,)
he would take them in his lap and sing to them.
Well, the time came to plant the field
and they transported him away
to a white desert
where the seasons never change.
They won't even let me send him his flute.
The judge should have been a farmer
because he can't recognize beauty in a wildflower.
Guilty though he may be,
my friend Pete
simply can't grow through concrete.