a vida perdida

In song
he said
were he not dead
or she did breathe
the touch
the scent
nothing bereaved
the box
lightened
no corpse
frightened
frozen kisses
staid
could melt
on her breast felt
no tears dropped
no years lost
mist from mouth
to heart uncouth
wafting would
all the tenderness
bare
all the rough
the turf upturned
an urn with love
denied
yet yearned
from embers
glowing dimly
yet
liquid dreams
flaccid streams
would
yet
beget.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..