Tuesday, July 10, 2007



My lover calls, and for no reason, too,
Except to hear my voice, and I am thrilled.

I hear his voice, recall his kiss, his touch,

His eyes, his smell
and weaken with delight.

My love is hopeless; his I hope is true.

I hope against all hope no blood is spilled.

One kiss, and all I know's I don't know much,

Except such brilliant day must bring on night,

Without a moon,
perhaps, no stars or few.
And if it come, and all my hopes are killed,

This love of long-spent youth is what I'll clutch

Close to my heart to pray that day dawns bright.

No fools like old fools, all the sages say,

And he and I grow older day by day.


I press my face into the towel he used,
His pillowcase as well, to seek some trace

Of his aroma, but his smell's so faint

I find no more than that: a trace, a ghost.

Instead I pine, and ponder unamused

How long it is till I next see his face.

I know it well enough, but my complaint

Is that he's furthest when I need him most.

A tragic queen, a fool. I stand accused,

But who'd not seek such comfort, in my place?

My suffering's not silent
— I'm no saint;
I keep the faith, and that's my only boast.

In truth, we'll meet quite soon, and then my soul
Within his arms will find itself made whole

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