by Anton Wills-Eve

<a href=””>Well, I Never…</a>

never ask why!


The sun shines on the fields and sighs

It misses the rain, and is so hot it cries.

The ice, freezing on winter’s rooftops white

Slides off, to melt on kitchen kettles bright.



In the desert, sands die in the heat of sands,

And woolen mits cannot protect little icy hands.

Never does the dying nightingale sing so sweet

As next the dying pauper on the midnight seat.



Oh, why must morning have to stave off night?

And why are lovers left to love as parents fight?

Why does this, our world,  its contrary mysteries keep

’til we only understand  them as we fall forever alseep?

Anton Wills-Eve