Lost But Not Found Poem by Sandra Feldman
Lost But Not Found
Forest, dull and dreary,
Mountains black and weary,
I climb, climb, looking,
For you, in the icy snows,
My heart thinks it knows,
But sees nothing Clearly.
What feeds the heart, but Love?
Blood, only secondary,
I lost you dreaming of,
A Tale told by a Fairy.
Alone now and Forever,
Your words remain so still,
The rivers have stopped flowing,
And maybe I soon will.
Why do so many your poems end by producing anguish in my heart? Is it their power, their sadness, their imagery, or the protective impulse for you that they engender? Probably all of the above...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/12/2024 10:36:59 AM # 1.0.0.1119
to: #444 what a number, what a score! Not a bore, that's 4 sure