No More Will I Wander Through Crimson Beets
No more will I wander through crimson beets,
Nor step on leaves, nor search for your trace.
You’ve vanished from dreams without repeats,
With that golden wheat-hair, gone with no face.
You were sweet — like the hue of ripe berries,
Your skin so soft, so tender, so fine.
You were like dusk, with rose-tinted flurries,
Like snow that on quiet roads starts to shine.
Those eyes, like black grapes, once aglow,
Have withered now, and your name’s no more.
Only your scarf will never let go
Of that honeyed scent your hands once wore.
At the hour when dawn, like a silent cat,
Climbs the rooftops to bathe in light,
I hear the reeds speak soft and flat
With the wind about you, deep in the night.
Let the blue evening murmur its say —
Be it a dream, a song, or memory’s plea.
Whoever shaped that body, that face, that sway,
Touched a secret wrapped in mystery.
No more will I wander through crimson beets,
Nor step on leaves, nor search for your trace.
You’ve vanished from dreams without repeats,
With that golden wheat-hair, lost in space.
