At the end of the day,
I can still hear you, though
I'm blind, I see you
walking away. Like a recurrent
dream, I've lost you again.
Would I suffer that my paradise
was tending your garden, pleasing
to the sun, roses, their fiery faces
stretching upward?
And how I cared for you
as if each blade of grass
was sweetness; each new
branch and sprout delight!
It is not clear when
you left me. One afternoon
your hands mirrored mine
scratched and bruised
from thorns and stones
by evening you were gone.
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