Of all romance, and of all aromas,
Romantic and aromatic,
Footsteps fall onto the floor with grace,
And allow the moon to drop that single tear,
Upon her ever-worn and smoothed face,
Alike the rocks that receive the wind.
Love is a calling,
To her feeble form.
Though, she is but a stone,
With the fragrant moss upon her gray skin,
Still youthful, with all the energy
Befitting a woman young at heart.
How would I kiss this vision
Without knowing the curse to which
Makes me a man without acceptance?
I have to be in love,
With this strange and anguished dove,
Her form only a heap of stone.
One tear against a thousand forms,
One tear against a thousand pebbles,
That have receded to the bottom of a lake,
Caught by the touch of Autumn,
With fiery leaves against the surface.
For that lake is only
A single flattened teardrop upon the Earth’s soil,
That is greater in fragrance than herself.
Could she ever lift herself?
Before I find beauty elsewhere?