FIELDS OF GOLD

The outstretched hand,
The falling rain,
The cloudy eyes,
The pouring skies.

The mute cry,
The shrieking death,
That final wish,
To die in her bed.

Where times would stop,
And hours will burn,
Heaving and choking,
Inside my chest.

She washes my hopes,
As I balm the wounds,
On her back.
She looks not at me,
As we walk the nostalgia track.

She wields her words,
And leaves me behind,
She floats on fogs white,
And the rains make me blind.

I wait for death,
As alone on her bed I lie,
In her boxes I lived,
In her closet shall I die.

And as I close my eyes,
I dream of fields yellow,
Where winters spray froths white,
And rains fill canals hollow.

In those fields now I wander,
Her slave and death’s stray,
And somewhere beneath harvests of gold,
Buried my happiness lay…