All of a sudden there is frog-singing, loud and tear-furrowed,
In the middle of nowhere in which silence was once the norm.
It’s accompanied by howls of winds, the messy, invisible kiss,
With which the night, star-bright and windless moments before, lightning-fast kills
The imperfect lovers’ perfect quiet, their tender, loving, restful sleep,
The kind we used to have, a great logician’s reason why dreams exist.
Then I feel the longing for your face on which moonbeams would fall,
On which I’d see some appalling deportment of afterglow.
The missed opportunity, irredeemable yet pretty,
That’s got blown away by time, burned away by indecision,
The lost chances to be with you on my being weigh heavy,
On my mind leave an imprint of impossible dimensions.
Amidst the tempest affronting somnolent dirges, awaking dawn,
In an angry, stentorian cry in an audibly gentle morn,
On the rose’s face falls the light and hue of an afterglow,
Ever fragrant, ever sweet, ever soft and pristine as snow.