When we have seen those days,
Where little kids play around the hearth,
And when the heart has been around the world,
And still we hold on to small moments.
Where have we hid our smiles,
That cometh thither is times of melancholy,
Needs not the sanguine bear fruit,
Love speaks not Shakespeare to live.
Words are not them,
Silence is not it,
And when the words are over,
Heart it is that will bleed.
Time ages not my heart,
Pain drains not my love.
Red is not always bled,
A pen is not always words.
My shadows are not me,
My actions hide behind,
Truth is not always the face,
For masks conceal all beneath.
My graves are not mine,
They will hide a different me,
My epitaph another will write,
In death my story is not me.
What was is what has gone,
Little regrets are but moments apiece,
My heart is mine till it beats,
The world I shape is not me.
Contempt I have seen,
Distance has been a kin,
What my words beg of me,
Indifferent poet I have been.
