What's love to those
Who've not been loved,
Or feathered pillows,
Like clouds above.
A hollow chasm,
An empty cup,
A marching band
That runs amok.
The empty eyes,
The tight pursed lips,
The clenched fist
Of the oppressed won't hurt.
A heart in solitude yearns
For the warmth and touch
Of a lover's burn.
I see an empty seat in need
Of a friend, a lover,
A need to feed.
The orange trees fruiting in the ravine,
Are out of reach, will fall and seed.
The winds that bring a cool night breeze
Are halted and can't give reprieve.
A table set with one plate and cup,
Is where I sit, and sit, and sup.