I knew once, that feeling, something remarkable, beautiful, even
It was being with you:
In Neruda’s city.
Sitting in that sun-drenched park, watching lovers stroll by, hand in hand,
and we smiled, because we, too, were lovers.
Standing, inches apart in the green-house, surrounded
by papyrus, pulling you close as the misters drenched us:
I love you so……
who said those words, which of us, now so long ago.
Walking, silent. That was enough.
Sitting side by side in the Cathedral, translating the homily for you. It was about love and
Not until later, did I realize that the priest recognized us.
Once, oh yes, once so long ago, I knew something beautiful
It was you, a you-now-gone.
Even if you returned, what could I say or do ?
All that was is gone, killed by words as sharp as bayonets.
The beauty, magic, now lost.
The words now meaningless – were they always ?
I have surrounding me ghosts, memories as fragile as arachnoid
Memories as an early morning mist in my valley.
Somewhere, between Scylla and Charybdis,
trying to find home.