Solitude

Precious moments of forlorn silence.
Solitude, there you are
on the rooftops of trees
in the hearts of lilies,
in the bosom of the clouds, your mother.

You are but a sketch of my imagination.
You with open mouth, with silent eyes closing.
You whose hair turns rivers into swirling currents.
Your precious feet-electric touch the floor 
lightly and are gone.

I thought of your letter
about the ever-blue Medieterranean
and the ever-red poppies.
I though of you
in the white cotton dress
a black silhouette
in a light-filled window.

You are but a memory now
ever nagging the quietude of my sleep
forever painful, forever beautiful,
forever happy, forever sad.
You are a part of me, an unhappy part.
Peacock! let your colors fade that I
may rest.

In December, we sat and laughed
In January, you were gone.
Now your sister tells me that you are
going away to Japan to marry.
You whose sincerity I have seen on paper.
You who sympathized with the pain
when I walked on crutches.
I pray you be happy.

I have to go to see you today.
Your talk would make me aware of my silence.
I will again listen and watch your lips move.
I will see you at nine, or is it nine-fifteen
or is it half-past nine?

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