Forgotten
You are nothing to me now
beyond a dream quickly forgotten.
The pine tree yearns for you
and the Aster's cry;
as for me, my love,
you are the stream far from the sea.
Once we loved-
that's certain.
Once we laughed
strolling through the Autumn grass
on a lambent afternoon;
hand to hand, heart to heart
endearingly conjoined.
Should the mourning dove
call your name
so clearly from above;
I reject the solemn dirge
of the sad, sad song
they say is love.
Copyright © Allen Beilschmidt Sr. | Year Posted 2019
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