when love was a gift, a song to be found
and roused from its sleep of peace deep
in soul’s memory.
Take care as you bare its heartbeat to
the harsh light of scrutiny, for it knows no
thought but to be shared as a treasure-that
once buried beneath the pulse of time.
And if you tire of its sweet fragrance as so
many careless wanderers do, their path a crooked
mile, their lusty minds seeking new
exotic fragrance, hearing sweet the siren’s call;
petals in the wind that fall like ashes on the cold,
hard ground to be crushed beneath
the heel of cruel disregard.
the shadows of eternity, covering its tender
face with soft grass where the birds can sing
it to sleep once more with mournful cry as low
their heads bow in reverence for its passing.
Do not look back, nor moan with remorse,
do not laugh or weep and gnash your teeth
for what has gone. Love will ever be love no
matter how often resurrected. It knows no