ND (19, April,1951 / kalubovila East, Sri Lanka)

A Waiter Writes A Poem In A French Restaurant

I am only a toothpick that never gets a kiss from your sherry lips.
I am only a serviette Mademoiselle,
You wipe your golden fingers and throw away.
I am only a firefly in your chandelier room of heart
And really I am a fool who cries for the Moon in daylight.

*To the moths where they fly at night and burn with flames.

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Comments (2)

Bruce Dawe has written a beautiful poem about a moth called 'the head next to mine on the pillow'. Your beautiful poem reminds me of this one. When I awoke in the morning. There on the pillow beside me lay the moth. His fluffy head was still tucked down. Like a late sleeper's, but the eyes, those fascinated Lamps that had drunk so deep of light During the night, the eyes were dull. And a soft power had fallen From the tattered wings folded In the high final dive. I might have been, perhaps, The last thing he saw as the light flooded His gentle body - why, yes, it could be I was a big thing in his life at the last, Enigmatic as an Easter Island statue, Before the tide took him out to where there is only flying And all the filaments are friendly. Your poetic soul flies free like that moth. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Hauntingly sad. That final eloquent line says it all, my friend. Take care. Warm regards, Sandra