She keeps open her doors, and her flowers fresh
Gerberas that he may like, roses that may delight.
Their scent is all she has, for his perfume is long gone
from her hair, her sheets, her memory,
from her days and those long, sweet nights.
She has never shut her windows, for fear of a missed sight,
She keeps them open and her heart; some day he might...
She has never shut either, those teary eyes,
that read over the letters of promise (or perhaps lies?)
Rain on the garden path, washed clean of his tread,
A flood of despair inside, a sob muffled in bed,
A hundred moons have waxed and waned,
she tells herself, he is only late
Hoping against all hope, she lies in wait,
keeping open her doors, and her flowers fresh...
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This poem was penned exclusively for Puneet Vijay's wonderful composition, which he calls 'The Ballad of Lonesome Eyes'. I, on the other hand choose to call it L'attente, which means 'The wait' in French. See Puneet's wonderful pictures on http://bit.ly/s8lfuz
1 comment:
Hope, my dear friend, is a beautiful enemy.
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