ON FINDING A STRAND OF HAIR IN A BOOK
Tell me, tell me
what is more sad,
than a love you would
give your life for...
to see it fall apart
in your fingers.
When you remember
all you dreamed,
and all the mountains you hoped,
and there was nothing,
nothing you could do
to stop, or to save it.
(Neither one's fault, nor the other's.)
To realize, even at the moment,
and the graved years you will carry it:
nothing, nothing you could do --
still falling apart, and one strand of hair
in the dark
... still falling, in your fingers.