Waves roar amidst an idle afternoon
The orange clouds touch the crimson heavens
I take a book of poems and read it aloud to you
You stand near me keeping a Michelangelic silence.
I muse over your beauty- the beauty I remember
When I sleep it touches me like a dream
The mysterious curve of lips
The orb of your face catches fire
Along the meters of lyrical gleams.
You hold out a hand to me
Like a branch of tree
I hold yours to complete
The circle within me.
The poems get over, the book is old
You see the heavens change
A consecrated change, for better than worse
We hold our hands strong and tight
Our hearts are young and might.
And now that is a memory
As thirty years have passed.
I still stand with a book of poetry now
Writen by the memories of you.
A vast abyss of silence girdles the poems
The meters speak of love and pathos.
The heavens still change - from cerice
To turqoise to pitch-black.
I read aloud the poems, now to me
Moments stay now as they always have been.
The poems now never get over,
The book is never old
I look at myself and
Then to the other side of me
I do find you, find your smile
Though I do not know you.
Knew you never.
