by Luis G. Dato
I have a dream too sharp and strange for name,
Of one who loves me and for whom I yearn,
A changing dream, yet somehow still the same,
Companion to my fancy’s every turn.
She understands me and for this she may
Know secrets which no human else would know,
My fevered sense none other can allay
With tears to shed which only she knows how.
If she brunette or blond? I do not care.
Her name? I have forgotten though it rings
Choral as those of lovers long since fled,
Her glances have a cold, marmoreal stare,
And her tones, ah, her tones are whisperings
Remotely heard from some beloved dead.
