Lament Ix
IX
"Not exactly Rumi...", he quipped,
his words charged with full intent.
"Rumi writes for everyone," she replied,
"your words are meant for me alone."
With that he knew she understood
but one hundred and eighty-two rhymes
could not make Time his soft master. Yet one whisper from his beloved and age
melted away and he was Youth once more.
Warm Muskoka nights used to make
him happy, now they make him cry.
They were victims of a passion, raw,
not meant to endure; love became
the disease instead of the cure.
Round and round in dreams she went.
"Woman, don't you know me?”, his lament
Let me sing to you a sweet melody
designed to jog your fatal memory."
Do you really think, Bok Hane,
she could ever think of you again
and smile?
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