by Basil Bucolic

This word’s for you. Could I say something more –
Each syllable just drowning in your eyes,
And each one being born in my cold gore
Which never needs your questions or replies?

You are not able somehow to restore
My best illusion that, much cherished, dies
In the life whirl, so primitive before
Our meeting on a spring night at moonrise.

I’m looking at you as in days of yore
I had been trying to discover wise
And omnipresent Nature, and to adore
The cunning fate with your abundant smiles.

Keep, then, presenting them to all the world,
So they may be in my poor verses told.