The Poet

I read your words as if I wrote them, or, that you wrote them for me, words that even now I bend and borrow and redefine- I hope you do not mind. Can I ever capture meaning as you did- without your inspiration? or are there too many pieces of my broken mirror to mend? I look through the window and see only what is in my mind, creating images, imagined, not real. I see the turquoise sea where as children we would play, with the light winds and bright sun that scorched our skin. I see you there among the laughing children as you cried, alone, I held your hand and dried your tears- even then a poet feeling pain. I watched as later you ran lost in the crowds-I was forgotten, you cried as we all did when they took our land, our freedom. I felt your fear, you sorrow mingled with mine- our loss, all was Red, our hearts and land in ruins, our history, our pain. Come now take the offer of my hand once again-and remember, and together we shall watch without words as the moon sets over the sea.