Love begins with a metaphor.
The birds fortuitous
alighted on her shoulders:
alighted on her shoulders:
a rose blooming
on a boundless
on a boundless
snow-covered plain
of silence.
He listened eagerly
to the story of her life
and she
to the story of her life
and she
was equally eager
to hear the story
of his:
a sentimental summary
of an unsentimental story.
A gulf of misunderstanding
immediately opened between them.
Silence lay between them
like an agony.
It grew heavier by the minute.
The woman he felt he knew
most intimately of all
had turned out to be
a woman he did not even know.
And yet
she was the one
he had always longed for.
Love is the longing for
the half of ourselves
we have lost.
No comments:
Post a Comment