O girl with arms open to the sunset,
Perhaps you belong to a gentler time
Where little provision existed for regret
Or the beastly memento of a crime
That I would bury from the dawn’s sight
In numb, February soil, and cower
From your disillusion, your eyes’ fine art.
Because my first taste of love was sour,
I let caution preside over the heart,
Leaving you to navigate this urban maze,
Where, in rush hour’s heated cough,
Headlights slice shadows, forked light tongues
Bridges, the sun beats its flammable hoof.
The canal bank is unshaven with yellow reeds,
Benches wear rust like an unsavoury crown.
Yet nature’s chequered framework lives on here,
Exhaling the leaves’ cool dialect into my ear:
O Mo chroi, corazon, inamorata, loved one.
I wave aside the smoke of commandment,
And the mirror of reparation cracks
By your tongue’s mellow writhing in my mouth,
The dark, droll dance of your eyelash.
O girl against whom I’ve held a gruff peace,
Should my eyes soak up all reassurance,
Or the voice that sung to you falls still,
Then may these words attest love’s burden,
Allowing our lives to once again be filled.
– Daniel Wade