like the pleasant, sati’fying after-hum of a brass bell
the echo of words reverbate in my soul, even now
and a vibrato of the intent of words strums my heart, running rich in my veins
for this, and other things
to experience this and other things again
I miss our dialogue, often through the night
reassuring the sounds then
and the memory now
I miss the conversation
the tremelo of your voice creating a cantabile, as your lips move
the pizzicatto of intonation colouring the meaning of words
the spicatto of how you say it unique, specially so when you smile
....are all part of what I miss
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem