Sitting in the darkening evening,
The pages of my diary turning idly,
A colossal sigh breaks free. . .
Could I write poetry enough
To set the motions of my heart to words,
Even you, cold-eyed one,
Would feel my anguished yearning.
But I, being caught in shadows,
Can only sit and watch in silence;
The blank pages glowing in the blue eventide,
And the black birds
Singing their way back home.
The pages of my diary turning idly,
A colossal sigh breaks free. . .
Could I write poetry enough
To set the motions of my heart to words,
Even you, cold-eyed one,
Would feel my anguished yearning.
But I, being caught in shadows,
Can only sit and watch in silence;
The blank pages glowing in the blue eventide,
And the black birds
Singing their way back home.