On that unending stretch of earth
she lies as if she lies with death
Though vital signs maintain their worth
in flushing cheeks and steady breath -
and in that soft and constant breath,
she is beguiled not by death,
(and so defiled not by death)
nor chastened by rebirth.
It catches in the static cling
of every ethereal goodbye
And with the virgin hum of Spring
is offered to the sleeping sky -
for all her years beneath this sky,
she's yet to know but one reply
(which none bore witness to but I)
and hasn't said a thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment