Tell her that I loved her
for the white soul and yellow scent
of early mornings together
under the pale light of September
Tell her about the four-eyed dreams
in the roundabout of years
her smile is creeping on
a remote ivy souvenir in my memory
tell her about the low tide of loneliness
the fragile pansies in the hands of Fall
dust crawling in my heart
and her song never ending
tell her that I dwell beyond all hopes
in a far distant sky resort
listening to birds and branches
and praying in blown up cathedrals
Tell her
I shall never come back
because all clocks are wrong
when anyone is late.
Claude Lopez-Ginisty
