When Love Dies

By Antonio Rodrigues

No mourners at this tomb when love dies,

Except a lone figure and graveyard stillness,

And the cawing of raucous crows,

Gentle breezes attempting to soothe the mind.

All that's left is the inexorable clock ticking,

Taking its slow sweet course like a stream in high summer,

As he waits for the pain to pass.

Then, he won't feel it anymore:

Pulses racing at the mention of her name,

Or walking in a world so cerulean blue,

Filled with the sweet thunder of Krishna's moves,

dancing with nebulae to the music of the supernovas,

And secret glances, sweet silences,

Filled with the aroma of chocolate cake in the oven,

And wanting to hold her and that moment,

in the grip of fluid eternity.

The clock, that inexorable clock takes care of clean healing,

the ashes of desire are cast to angry winds,

disappearing into empty reaches, blank spaces,

When sweet love dies, all that's left are unfinished symphonies,

And permanent requiems.

By Antonio Rodrigues