Last year's leaves
on the careless, stoical trees.
Days not yet out
of the tunnel of winter.
I cross the brook
on wet stones
not knowing that I love you.
Eyes weep
at last year's hatred
hearing the leaves,
brook
and stone
this year, last year, weep,
not knowing that I love you.
Alone in your bright house
year after year
you sing and smile,
grit back the memories
of my words
with brook song
not knowing that I love you.
Alone we suffer
never together
each hearing
the brook's rush
its tears over fate
the stone's song —
not knowing that I love you.
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