On the verge of the end, it is a small consolation
That my heart was still beating.
Oh, how I‘ve wept. I’ve wept until
The night-moon passes the trees –
And then wept again.
The sadden moon no longer cries for me.
With its passion lost to time,
The moon can watch over me during the harvest.
After being a friend in long ago plights,
He can only mark my lonely
Existence as I walk the beach.
The ebbing waters wash along my feet
As the ghost crabs dart away.
There is a hollow in my heart as
I scratch the sand with a broken stick.
The words I scratch remind me
Of lost time, when she was near.

Yes, yes, oh, how I wish time
Regressed until she
Once again rendered by my side.
But how can dreams justify
Passing time or rectify time that is wasted.
Again I cry.
Has it been so long that
My dreams have changed into a fable?
Can I no longer believe?
That was once a daydream did not exist.
Has my heart broken so wide
That my life’s blood no longer
Runs through my veins?
Instead it puddles into a lake,
Which no swan will take refuge.
Although the surface of the lake
Has hardened with time,
The pain and sorrow lie just beneath.
Waiting to find a fracture—
A crack, to pour through.

I wrote poetry in the sand before
The sorrow left my hand – with a shake.
I could hear her laughter
As she ran behind me,
Reading words of love
Before the tides could take
My thoughts, my dreams.
Her laughter, infectious – caught
The ears of children playing
At the beach, and they would
Laugh and run with her.
Her laughter was the flute
Of the Pied Piper –
And how she played.