by Luis G. Dato
But why the mien indifferent, the frost
That chills the observant eye first hour of day.
That takes you and your thoughts so far away
Into the land, the bourne of memories lost?
In then the price forbidding, high the cost,
Beyond my power, what I do or say
Your mind nor yet your will can’t hope to sway,
In other words, must love give up the ghost?
Now to a barren, desolate land I go,
No compass fixed to steer my courses by,
Thence to the end I have not write to know,
By what strange stream, beneath what unknown sky —
To think one sullen word has wrought this so,
Your silence and the cold glint of your eye!
