Jerome by Anastasia Forfotă - HTML preview

Dear One,

"Dear One,

I have long postponed the words,

to write them from my deepest chords,

for I so far have thought to me,

What's with all this mystery?

Why not let it all be known?

Why tell lies to have truth shown?

As they were weeping your demise,

I myself were a disguise

of shadows lengthened

over valleys,

of ashes scattered

over stories

which I've told to tell a lie

that I'm dead and yet don't die,

that I live and yet don't sigh,

and in sleep I never cry.

Oh, but weeps are long and dry, let me tell you

- or let me tell I -

and from tears I drink my breath,

and from dreams I smell my death

to never pass, in vain to stay

and tell me secrets of its game.

But who are you - and who am I?

I've been wrong for all this time

to think that I might be of use

- the shadow is then but a fuse;

And all our searches, in the end,

With empty answers have been met.

Yet there's one more question left:

Is there really no regret?"

All those borders, never bent

All those letters, never sent