And Still - A Poem

From as early as my childhood bed,

I dreamed and watched and thought and read.

And there began to feel the hole,

For him who was to come.

A gaping chasm in my soul,

I began to yearn that we would talk,

To know each other's mind and waking thought,

And still he does not appear.

This land here moulded by a hand divine,

I wander alone, all thoughts are mine.

Dark clouds hang low grieving,

For him who has not come.

And years of youth are passing,

So now on my own St Agnes Eve,

A picture of that missing face I weave,

And still he does not arrive

Harsh destiny is it that you cannot conceive,

Of how we should come to meet, but I believe,

Through futures glass I will see,

Him who hasn´t yet come.

And St Agnes´s bells will ring with glee,

I will ask for him just one gift,

His soul he will place in my palm to heal the rift.

And still he does not materialise.

Now the clouds are descended lower,

And time has painted wrinkles on my once fair brow,

And I must give up my wait,

For he who is to come.

Life is now but an empty place,

Today of all days I should be glad,

But my soul cries for it is another who at the altar stands.

And still he does not arise.

And there was no graduate to break the door,

I do not care for my thoughts or feelings more,

For all that I was to share,

With him who has not come.

All my dreams crumble to a nightmare.

So I grieve and shed tears into my bed,

And love is blasted away by an icy gale.

And still he does not appear.

And it is society to blame and its ugly mask,

For over all integrity and feeling a shadow is cast,

And it is me who must count the cost,

For him that will not come.

And all my hopes and dreams are lost,

For now sex and lust are all that counts.

Adonis weeps for forgotten love trysts by silvery fonts,

And still his image will not vaporise.

And Tristan and Isolde are all but forgot,

And Eloise weeps from her lonely grot,

As I hold Ablelard´s hand and weep,

For him that cannot come.

And loneliness in bitter waters seep,

Through my tired eyes that can search no more.

And these epic tales of love fall like ashes on the floor,

And still he will not show.

And Eve gave Adam the fruit of lust to taste,

Now loves once fruitful shores lie barren with waste,

And Cleopatra´s barge stirs not the wave.

For me he will not come,

Mark Anthony groans in his grave.

I am left in my head the dreamy pathways to wind,

For I have loved with all my soul but only in my mind.

And still he is never to be.