Is It You Who Thinks of Us?

mark-lecuona Poems

My eyes weep The truth is so hard to bear I wish to live only between day and night It is the dusk that spares my tears And so too the dawn Like silk curtains that guard my slumber Who would find me where time is fleeting Not cherished Or written about Except as a beginning or an end Where there is expectation or wistfulness Never contentment But for this I must pray The end must be near So to the beginning of hope No matter how far the journey It is only that it exists Sometimes I want to wake up But I cannot I am conscious Without form Only feeling Misty hazy despair Inside a smoke glass coffin But not a cocoon I can see what it is that I am Though desperation cannot hear me And freedom cannot see me Would it be that we were loved Would it be that nomads had a mother Would it be that we even knew our own name Whatever is in my heart will wait But for what is unknown except for life itself We are the ones who must hope for a savior Unnamed but true For love is all we know And the worth that man sees in our will to live