As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his damaged heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished on that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
John F McCullagh what a poem, a rosé without a thorn, I envy your sensitivity, its not the triangle, quadrangle or the geometric shape of competition that has ever bothered me, but your understanding of seeing children in her eyes, is like a cosmic connect, crossing religions, time, traditions, it proves all that is written without the sanction of human heart stands rubbished and canned in the bins of history. Bravo.