A beautiful poem dedicated to the poet’s lady love for whom he starts writing poems. The poet is an eulogy of their love for one time as they decide not to meet. Once upon a time, only once, unexpectedly, then never again.
She asked me,
Do you write poems?
Yes and destroy them.
I am an unpublished poet.
I write for myself.
I believed, when I entered poetry,
I was escaping from myself, but alas, poor me,
I brought myself with me!
I like to deconstruct myself.
That is part of my living.
You invented me.
There is no such earthly being.
Such an earthly being there could never be.
A poet cannot comfort.
A shadowy apparition haunts me night and day.
We met in an unbelievable year.
Everything withered by adversity.
Without streetlights, the waves were black as pitch.
That's when your voice called out to me!
Why it did still don't understand.
And you came to me.
In winter, creating a flock of verse.
You’ll drown in my love story,
When I will write using the pen you gifted me.
I will from now always read with a pen in my hand,
As if the I am in a conversation with you.
You don't love someone because they're a dream of perfection.
You love them because of the way they meet their challenges,
How they struggle to overcome.
You love them because together,
You bring out the best in each other.
It will always be enough.
You don’t have to say everything to be a right.
Sometimes a fire kindled will alight an interest.
All true friendliness begins with fire and food and drink and the recognition.
Each human soul has in a sense to enact for itself
The gigantic humility of the incarnation.
After all I am meeting her after a hundred years.
You must descend from heaven to meet her.
There was a time before you but I can't remember it now
A time before your beauty and
I were formally introduced I'm sure I lived without you
but I don't remember how can't imagine living without these feelings.
The celebrations of secret nonmeetings are empty.
Unspoken conversations.
Unuttered words.
Glances that don't intersect.
Don't know where to come to rest.
And only the words rejoice.
Because they can flow and flow.
Somehow it is here ...Love eternal.
I'm not sentimental, I'm romantic.
The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks, things will last.
The romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't.
We learned not to meet anymore.
But we ourselves do not know what happened in that hour.
That's the ideal meeting...once upon a time, only once.
Unexpectedly, then never again.
Image Credit: Madame Conseille. Courtesy Google.