in the shape of mother, lover and
the happy forgetful days of childhood,
that flit before my eyes with quivering speed,
you are not you.
No more the originals with which
I recollect a connection.
You are a silver shadow,
When closed in,
By the phantoms of these New Times,
I can still somehow make out your graceful shapes...
A mother's kiss, caress... a look of admiration...
Having been exquisite to someone...
A wild running child...
flying hair... and a mind free, beautiful
like the clouds above.
Then suddenly awakened
By some grotesque reality
I reflect with a sigh:
You are a silver shadow...