By K. Morris Kurzman


Come, my master, wise with age, come sit by my side.
Tell me all you have to tell of hard and hopeless love.
Tell of every time you've cried--
How often you had wished you'd died
And joined the stars above.

I'll listen, learn-- I'll study hard. Through learning I'll grow wise.
So spare no tale of sorrow deep, no story of remorse.
Tell of malice spiced with lies
Stewed by men that you despise
Whose hearts are nettled gorse.


I have tales of all design, both great and minuscule.
I speak of kings, I speak of rogues, and many more between.
Men, it's true, are often cruel
And let their baser instincts rule,
But that's not all I've seen.

In this world in which we dwell-- (No other do we know)
Kindness, too, can oft be found-- that bird of gentle beak.
She folds our hearts, and fends off woe,
And helps us, daily, live and grow.
Of malice let's not speak.


But I must learn to live like you-- without my love fulfilled.
Once you must have sought a vengeance-- what became of that?
You must have dreamed your rival killed--
Surely once you must have willed
To pinch him like a gnat.

Every night as shadows fall I see him in my mind--
That loathsome man who bars my love and tears my soul apart
I know, of course, I should be kind
But once I'm clad in dark, I find
I long to gorge his heart.


Friend, I know too well your lot. I suffered through such rage.
But time alone can dim your love, and soothe your savage soul.
Endure this strident, fearsome age,
While day by day, your heart must wage
A war to make you whole.

Once you close your heart to hate, and put your lust to rest
You will find that days are brisk, and love is soon a ghost.
Peace will harbor in your breast,
And you can give your humble best
To him you love the most.


Him I love the most you say? You know I can't have him!
I ask for wisdom-- words of aid-- and drivel is your token?
My hopes for peace are just as dim,
My future prospects just as grim
As if you'd never spoken!

Your words are empty, useless shells-- just like you they're hollow.
I'll take revenge-- I'll kill them both-- my love and him he loves.
I'll eat their hearts with just a swall-
-Ow, watch them writhe and watch them wall-
-Ow-- Captive pinioned doves.


Your oaths of hate torment my ears. You do not hear my word.
Attend to him you love the most, and you will be content.
To think you know him is absurd!
I speak quite plain-- why've you not heard?
(My words can make no dent...)

Your oaths of hate reflect your youth. You misconstrue my speech.
I spoke of him you loved the most, but never named the man.
Peace is always in your reach--
Here's the last I have to teach:
The one most loved is you.

K. Morris Kurzman, an 18 year old Dramatic Writing Major at NYU can usually be reached at dkurzman@mcs.net -- when he's not laughing uproariously in the face of death, putting his head directly into the mouth of ferocious lions with bad breath, or other various hyperbolic clichés.
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