A singular star gapes through the clouds
In the murky, moonlit sky.
A young lad in his twenties
Stares at it and thinks of someone.
Miles away in a foreign land,
A lonely girl does the same.
It’s not every night
That you see this tragic spectacle.
Night is but darkness,
That obscures the truth,
That hides the pain,
That veils the light.
And in the darkness,
Is lost the love,
That they believe still is
In the darkness.
The cold wind blows in his face,
It blows past her hair,
It’s bleak, for it brings no warmth,
It’s bleak, so it dries the tears.
He’ll not sweep her off her feet,
She’ll not wake him from his sleep.
The old man who tells the tales of love,
Lives in his humble hut alone.
March will follow October,
And October March.
The dreamers will die
And be born again.
Posted by Siddhartha 
