…and the sad gypsy sang for his bottle of wine, and I sang along for mine.
Those days, we were dangerously close to dying,
To the end of all the longing we mistook
For grand poesie.
Lost on the road to anywhere,
We stepped toward no paradise,
Discarded all loving touch
But for human companionship,
Asking too much of the world, unable to grasp
The small treasures.
If there’s something missed, something lost,
It’s only the wide-open sky we saw
Through vinegar eyes,
Our salted wounds as yet unburied.
Come back to me, my own true self,
Come back, and we’ll slip away
To some long, true corner
And watch the setting sun.
I suspect she’s doing that right about now. A beautiful poem & epigraph.