The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Iron Glass

I stand there waiting for my love
Heaven has ruptured from above

He said he was coming home to me
Look for me again, he said tenderly

A rosy glass shimmers in the light
I hear cry of doves coo in the flight

I wait there standing with delight
Why my lover is nowhere in sight

Rose scent lingers in my memories
Faith carries me high of no worries

My lost lover will come this I trust
Live again over and over if I must

The wind of sadness whips up fast
Must have lost him again or at last

Tree of life dries, succumbs and falls
For my love is not made of iron glass

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