Bereft
She and the one behind the mirror
Look at the dull — devoid of zest.
They both realise this blur is clear
With rheumy eyes, they watch this mess.
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She takes the comb and puts it down;
Sits lost in all sincerity;
Lives the strolls with him around
Which she wished would outlast eternity.
“And whose fault it is?” The voice reflects.
Did he find new goals to chase?
“I thought what could be more than our silly talks,
Favourite bench and crowded marketplace.”
And no one’s bound to stay —
What could convince her otherwise?
No new day and no new soul
But his return, and else? No dice.
Now alone, she has to take the strides
Nothing’s familiar but the routes
All those leisure walks in light
Brought her to Crepuscule.
