Her love, for long a thorn
now an ornament of pain
on her numb heart, pierced,
that has suffered in vein.

lovelorn and desolate,
she collects words in hope,
even from still night air,
but that work against often;
a vocabulary
of intense desire
she discerns at once,
from the scent
of jasmine
blooming at midnight
disturbing her peace
wave after wave.

Mate call of
a night bird
late for its date,
hurriedly searching
the rendezvous
and its sweetheart,
makes her sad.

Sky full of stars'winks
stringed together
as a song,
suggest daring things
she wouldn't think
attempting even much later.

She would send sighs
dry her tears rolling down,
and just suffer in silence,
till the sky open its eye,
when tired she will close her eyes.