It’s easy to think one is in love
Alas to exist in a state of ignorant bliss
You think you love, what have you missed?
Love is not really ours to have, it simmers, it burns,
It keeps us alive, our stomachs it churns
Our mind it mists and our soul it devours
We bestow upon it the greatest powers
The obsession of humanity
The young, the brave
The old, the wise, from beyond the grave
Our thoughts it mingles, our hearts it breaks
Our withering olden minds it snakes
When years have passed, and you might fool yourself into thinking all is forgotten
A stranger walks past with the blue umbrella
Or smell of the air, rain on dust,
The sight of heather, a car painted in rust
Wait until all the ticks have tock’d and the little hands are tired and the numerals have long since vanished
Marched away with the shade of the room,
the dust settles sleepily.
Wait some more until sound itself is a constant,
Soundless idea
Until age obscures the corners of your vision
And wrinkles numb your touch
Wait again until you are as constant as the floor
That drinks the light and knew them all
Wait, wait, wait
And the sight of field poppy will still take you
Back to the lampshade in the room where your mother would wake you
Where the smell of mint tea back to your brother’s snores
Back to the boy in class you would adore
A new book, wet ink ever so faint
Brings you back to the school library’s paint
Where the sigh of stranger
Reminds you of yours
The tiredness that has filled you
Everyday meant more
After his death and the hours on the grass
Listening to them talk about how his life had passed
Where words hidden in pens, waiting to fall
Long afternoons in university halls
Where polished silver reminds you of cold feet
And guests singing cheers, and candle’s heat
Where sleepless nights are all too well-known
Yet now that child’s child has long since grown
And the slipping quilt, is not from another being unfair
Now when you turn, the bed is bare
If you have loved
Don’t be surprised if it’s all you have left
Not the thing itself
For that I am bereft
For the sights and moments
Caught and shaped
The second of time, I would not let escape
I am no more than what I loved.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
For the sights and moments Caught and shaped The second of time, I would not let escape I am no more than what I loved.- -amazing lines, thanks for sharing