Exiled From Sunrise
The days are filled
with wineglasses of remorse
to be sipped slowly
in the delicate dusk
as the soft sunlit rays of hope
dissipate as fine as summer mist.
Only vague desires remain
to see a human smile
along a country road
entering a familiar church,
to clasp hands with an ancient friend,
to compose a poem in the daylight
to the wondrous longing for a woman's eyes.
I need to commune with autumn leaves
that blanket cemetery beds,
I need to weep in isolated places of former joys,
I need simply to sleep in another country
exiled from sunrise.