Today I cried
for the love of whom
she was only a picture
framed in my distance.
Now
nothing is remained from her but a memory
nothing attests to her ever existence,
but a reminder,
framed on the walls of happiness
deep
deep in the dens of my sadness
in my eyes.
A deep set of eyes
framed on the walls,
oceans framed in a drop of tear,
clouds more rainless
than sunshine,
trickles of honesty and care
clearer than chandeliers.
With her I always could venture
in the provinces of intimacy,
learn the aptitudes of silence,
when
there was no space between now and then
except where we lived,
where just togetherness was spoken,
where
time had no sequence,
and the sheer acts
were the only providence
and "us"
was a horizon that never ended
no matter how hard
we dashed our horses to the distance,
in the picture
framed in these walls:
The wound of space that ever since,
has never mended.
