She knows it well: she’ll never look at his eyes.
And yet it’s of little importance to her.
She sends letters to him, and he still replies,
Every message is like a fresh spring flower.
Until now she’s collected many of them;
She tied them in big, dried colorful bouquets
At her old age she’ll reach for a fragrant stem
To recall him and the great, breathtaking days.
And when he doesn’t reply to her some day,
It doesn’t matter - she won’t change her outlook.
She’ll infuse a cup of tea; Green or Earl Grey,
And press the blooms among pages of her life’s book…