You in advance, lost lover,
never arriving to all those songs
I rehearsed in the morning.
The days, I planned them for you, the great
swinging landscapes, breath-holding
forests in the lit-up dawn, unsuspected
turns in the road, sunsets over the garden wall.
No longer can I discern you.
I walk the garden alone,
where we once played, full of hope:
still the rose-entwined porch, a door ajar,
the path you had just walked
towards me. Why
is the pond still reeling from you?
It throws back, startled, my too-sudden image.
The green grass so soft to my feet,
oh how gentle the touch! Who knows
whether this same bird, alone,
this evening, has sung for us both?
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