The leaves, they whispered, in anticipation,
as autumn had filled them with a gentle elation,
they fell through our fingers like shining mimosa
and walked us up over the via dolorosa.
The wind has a way of forging a new path,
for Leander, the seabed; for Hero, the dark,
Damascus converted far off in its mist when it saw heaven smiling
in spite of our kiss.
As I looked at you laying there, my person, my lover,
you’d the sun on your arm and the world on the other.
What was that bell chiming, way up and above;
was it the sweet sound of reciprocal love?
You opened the window as if to prepare
that leaves wither slowly in winter’s despair;
for lamenting this season in bittersweet jest
is to scorn all the love in the nightingale’s breast.