November 20, 2015

To let your veins weep

For you, dear friend
                       
ending this long drought
with rain the colour of
wine (whose name I can’t
pronounce)
will all be in vain, don’t
you think? For
what’s the use of a
neat row of red tulips,
a field of poppies, or a
thick bush of roses,
if you won’t be there to
pick and smell them
if you won’t be there to
hand them to the crying child
longing for your return
if you won’t be there to
realize that,
that child is you?

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