I cry often,
Whenever I unearth
Oldness from coldness.
Perhaps a misplaced photograph, suddenly found
By a heap of dust.
I look upon that dust, to next wonder,
“Is it you, the flesh of my flesh?”
The lady who did die,
Was the death that makes me cry.
I’ll weep the tears,
Staining my barren cheeks,
Staining beneath my swollen eyes,
And not a single tear,
Will be swept aside
For the coming countless years.
I am only loving myself
As often as I can.
With blueness for a pair, that weeps
A crudeness to my hands, now a pair
That holds a tight grasp with only myself.
I am merely a man,
Without a throne, without a shelter.
Beauty came and went,
Beauty has fled.
Beauty has washed itself, upon shores made of stones,
Birch, and the lacking home.
My love went faraway
To see the birds of yesterday.
For that was when the world had loved
Our presence, among gulls and doves.