By Shlomoh

Here, below your country
I sit and reflect
On our discourses,
Voice to voice
Quite mobile.

Platonic conversations
Quite neutral
In their simplicity.

Yet for me
They cause an undercurrent
Of Romance.

Romance once more,
Ever the Possibility
That this time
It might work.

But how can it?
We are separated
By Mountains of Snow
And Ice
Which keep away
The warmth I feel for you.

Your voice
Speaks many things to me.
Beneathe the distant friendship
There is more.

But what?
Tell me,
My Hebrew sister
For I do not know.

It is a friendliness
With just the barest hint
Of something else.

You are sweet
And deserving
Of the sweetness
That a man may yet
Bestow upon you
If you but open
To him.

Strange it is
For you
To hear these words
Which have not been
Spoken to you

He with whom you lived
Cheated you
And showered his affections
Upon another
After two score years
Of Holy Matrimony.

It was a Matrimony
Which disolved
Before its Documentation
The Silent Death,
The Unspoken Disappointment
Which in the End
Left you single.

It was a Lifetime
Of what Could Have Been
If only,
If only,

Is it ever what it seems?
Is Couple-hood a Dream
From which we wake
When our Sleep-Stories
Turn to Nightmares?

Yet some continue
To live with Hope.
Such as I do.
And your intoxicating voice
Prods me to speak.
Stirs the Loving Man
Inside me once more.

Rest and take comfort,
Darling woman
In the knowledge
That you still possess
The Power
To so move a man.

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