(04 October 1943 / Germany)

Bonjour Tristesse

The day was triste,
gray clouds adrift
like bags of crumpled rags,
and through the wipers came
the image he had feared.
Portrait of la jeunesse,
small dimples, dots to join
and waiting for a kiss,
so they could flash a smile,
warmed from inside
by fleeting thoughts,
a million glow worms of her mind
now painting rouge
upon a hopeful face.
He heard the thunder,
saw the flash of lightning then,
as angel tears fall softly now,
his heart is unaware of fading light
and trumpets glory still
a confidence to know, my heart, be still.

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