You will come like a breeze
with an airy whispiness
on a day with no hours,
when the sun doesn’t burn my skin,
and in long afternoons to wander
with time to think, and write poetry;
with time to love in the afternoon
and dine in the evening.
Or you may not come like that,
but in the din of strife
in a world gone mad
Where the poor and the sick lie needy,
and never stop coming
though I’m drained from listening
to their stories,
until I find myself among them.