There is a piece of pain
wedged between the mountains
drawn against the sky
(will it still be blue?)
and a river rising from the eyes
forming the waterfall in the fall.
(will it still be cold and deep?).
There’s a red start to the night
running to meet the charm of the moon.
(Is the old street still for lovers?)
There is a soft nostalgia in the bruised chest
and a wounded heart commanding the blood
that flows into the body.
There, of course, time
to succumb everything.
And nobody else remembers to look
the enchanted mountain and ask for a want
Nor does the dark canoe float on the river
and no boy challenges the backwater anymore
Certainly, there is only the longing I feel