What Became Of Us
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Martin Buber
Of the rain;
And sense your silence
In its pain.
The mist that lingers
Above the river
Is not more gentle
Than your whisper.
The wind that stirs
The nodding firs
Not softer
Than my tender words.
Everything soft
The fog wraps in gauze,
And gray distances
Surrender.
Even the graceful
Ballet of birches…
Even the lament
Of mourning doves,
Even lips of past loves,
Mute as ghosts,
Wondering
What became of us.
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nice poem
I'm amazed with all your posts
thank you
You are welcome
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Wonderful work tonight, John:) Beautiful and a definite Canadiana feeling:)