by Ian von Franckenstein
When he steps in her bedroom late at night, so softly she breathes,
so softly he moves, and always like a burning candle a lamp
lit, lit by her head shrouded by a scarf whose fibers fill one
thousand days and nights, days and nights from a past that now
casts a pales glow.
“There,” he whispers to the shadows, “there lies a figure of Time…
Time once spent prancing like a long-legged colt down Rue
Montparnasse always radiant to men, to children too. And nights of
Laughter, late night talking, of endless waking, love-making ‘til
“And now?” he says to the lamp’s soft light. But there is only silence.
He reaches out and touches her white hair softly, so softly she stirs,
Her lips open so slightly as if to speak but here is just that stillness.
He leans over that motionless frail form curled like a baby gray bird
And his lips touch her blue-veined white head, so softly kissing her