I cannot look upon your face but weep
when thoughts of what I might have meant to you
pervade my spirit long after I keep
appointments with our empty rendezvous.
The fields and shores that could have been the bed
upon which both of us could sleep by night
or play by day the games we love instead
became the silent grave without the light
your beaming eyes and moistened lips, your breath
exhaling sighs that whisper secrets, deep
entrenched within a soul so deep that death
could not command them all depart from sleep.
So much as I might want you, being bold,
I cannot do so now: I am too old.
Really love this title; makes me think of some gnarly old Oak tree, out in a field, with a pair of pseudo-eyes composed of some well placed dark knotholes; and a sort of anguished, twisted branch affectation, almost dragging on the ground, as if the very limbs were paralzyed and helpless to grab or reach for anything however close and accessible it might actually be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
now you can't be that old, can you? but by the way you churn out these wonderful sonnets, maybe I'm thinking you are!