He did not come… and the moon was so bright,
Silver-clad was every bush in the field.
I waited so long… the spring wind carried
His name in a distant, futile dream.
I went out quietly, the night was like a sigh,
Thin, transparent, like a living soul.
My waiting – a quiet punishment,
That is silent again, that holds me again.
He did not come… and my heart did not stop,
And the dawn came, as always, like nothing.
Only the night remained in my hair, like a memory,
Like that final, unspoken “why?”
He Did Not Come
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