poetry contest

my mother taught me that every night
there were three in the meadow by the brook
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
like eagles on up high
this is the song of youth
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
doubtless i remember still
the agony of having too much power
when freedom from her mountain height
the stars fell from heaven
have we no shame?