i still dream about my lover
crossing 7 rivers on her old boat,
rowing ripples of sorrow,
formed by droplets of tears
that moon-walked down her cheeks,
like silver lines in dark clouds
running like water fall, down a hill,
falling with deep sighs, with each clock tick
every drop into the river sings a song
as she rows along:
'take me deeper than my fears/
do not taste like my tears/
fare me well to yonder shores/
do not draw me to his voice'
too late
there were days of sunshine and plenty,
when the wind was art and poetry,
how much of him was loved?
there were days when rain was heavy,
when affection was your vanity,
how much of him was loved?
now, by untamed naivety
and itchy ears of the gullible laity,
you laid off, like Jonah,
the plot of your journal,
tell me,
how far are you from where he drowned?
not long, yet you miss him sore?
for along you row,
deep he sank and swam,
calling and pleading and hoping
you'd, for past's sake, heed
but your sadness waved back,
like stray dogs wave tails,
you couldn't, again bark,
when you met your fears,
not so long a time,
'time is the balm'
you claimed, but look, dear dame,
who's got no healing
i still dream about my lover
crossing 7 rivers on her old boat,
on lonely nights of cold
and faint moon lightning
her voice floating in the wind
that swishes west to east,
while an interlude of distant thunder,
rumble in low solemn tones
the song she left unsung:
'take me deeper than my fears/
do not taste like my tears/
fare me well to yonder shores/
do not draw me to his voice'