To Cyprus
I know an isle, to Love the long-lost home,
the sea's white waves, the sun's hot rays caress.
Necessity, that most cruel fate of all,
has banished Love, yet may not quite suppress
the present fragrance of a sacred past.
On Trodos, pines still keep their sweet incense.
The while it lasts, no honeymoon can end.
Oh do not mark the boot-prints in the sand,
but hope that Love shall one day conquer all.
Even the sea, long shines the patient sun.
What mars when Love, long absent, claims her own?
Copyright © Julian Scutts | Year Posted 2017
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