JOHN LARS ZWERENZ [THE END OF TIME] THE END OF TIME [CC] CLOSED CAPTIONED

JOHN LARS ZWERENZ [THE END OF TIME] THE END OF TIME

THE END OF TIME

THE END OF TIME BY AMERICAN MUSIC ARTIST JOHN LARS ZWERENZ IS HIS LATEST ALBUM TO BE RELEASED INTERNATIONALLY ON THE SWAN RECORD LABEL.
IT CONSISTS OF 14 ALL NEW ORIGINAL SONGS.

AVAILABLE WORLDWIDE AT A STORE NEAR YOU OR ONLINE.

THIS ALBUM IS AVAILABLE IN BOTH CD AND DIGITAL FORMATS.

THE END OF TIME

THE LITTLE FLOWER BY JOHN LARS ZWERENZ

 Saint Thérèse of Lisieux born Marie Françoise-Thérèse Martin on January 2, 1873, lived out the latter portion of her short life as a cloistered nun in Normandy, France. After her death at the age of 24 she became widely known as "The Little Flower" for her simple yet extraordinary humility and holiness.  She has been called "the greatest saint of modern times" - Saint John Paul II

The Little Flower

I ventured out eastward, 

Leaving my bride at home

In our mansion by the grotto,

More magnificent than Rome,

Only to find a little cottage,

A thousand times 

More beauteous than my own.

Along the way

I met golden furrows,

Which glimmered and glistened in the sun.

Upon the meadows

I encountered brooks,

Where silvery, swirling currents run.

There in those woods rose lindens tall,

And sanctified nooks,

Bathed by a teeming waterfall.

And so I ventured beyond the vast sea,

To an isle lit by a rhapsody,

Which sailed on the pleasant breeze.

Beneath the boughs of willow trees

I encountered a little cottage,

Fragrant with the blooms of summer.

And behind that little, wooden house,

There was situated a garden, small and paved,

With a little path, made of humble stones.

The roses of the zephyrs softly laved

My curious brow, as I beheld a nun

Walking serenely in the eternal, bright sun.

Her hair was dark, half-covered with a veil.

She wore a habit, and her countenance was lovely.

She owned every flower,

And every flower owned her.

I bowed chivalrously, 

And she beckoned me to enter

Her cloistered, little bower. 

She spoke with a voice the angels envy,

So charming to hear,

Her radiant inflection,

Very French in its delectation,

Said to my chiming, enraptured ear:

“My ideal was to be another Christ.

Yet your ideals and idols

Were a beauteous woman, poetry and song.-

It is a wonder that you made it here.

For without a prayer -

You had no prayer.”

I stood transfixed in the garden there,

And I felt a delicious briskness in the weather.

Her face became immaculate, and fairer than fair.

“You know me?” I with bated breath did ask.

“Yes,” she said. “You are the poet who donned yourself in leather,

Who drank until drunk from every flask.

While no sacrifice astonished me,

You swallowed visions gluttonously;

You were like Les Buissonnets,

Grand on the outside, 

Yet in the inner, prodigious with wine;

And you lived like a Pagan,

Having walked with Dionysus,

You reveled in the sunshine;

You slept intoxicated

In the fields of the fall.

Verily I say:

It is a wonder you are here at all!

Yet The Virgin only has to pray

Once to Her Beloved Son.

And still you are aflame with the vine!

John, you are a funny one!

Welcome to this cottage of mine;

For you are my brother,

Nevermind the wine."

Her beauty was such that I knew no other,

Except for my brunette bride.

And then to my astonishment,

She offered me 

A fine carafe filled with burgundy.

I respectfully asked her: 

“What is this?”

“Ah,” she replied

“The quintessence of a Saint is sweetness!”   

I drank from the flask and she said as she sighed:

“My mother was a lacemaker,

Just like your bride!”

“How do you know all?” I asked.

She answered:

“Where do you think we are? -

All glory varies from star to star.

My name is Saint Therese.  I am the little flower.

See me here in my soil anew,

Blooming forever 

For the glorious pleasure

Of a King, a Catholic Jew.”

“Perhaps you know of my sisters?-

Marie, Pauline,

Leonie, Celine?-“

“All I knew, my holy lady fair,

Was weaving verse and sipping Chablis,

Kissing my lover in the bright lights of Paris,

Where lilacs swayed in the aromatic air,

And that you were cloistered as a Carmelite, in Normandy.”

“Yes, my brother John,

Although the night took hold of me,

I chose to carry on.

I forgot myself in making others happy,

And my empty shoes were filled.”

She gazed at a rose,

And it wavered as she willed.

And as I left her garden-close,

As the sun’s diamonds shed,

She gave me a note, a poem, it read

As a sacred, solemn gift, 

It discreetly said: 

“A little soul is easier for the breeze of love to lift!”

JOHN LARS ZWERENZ

(C) 2017