At last a smile,
Too quickly fading leaves.
Where did this flush of cheek simmer from?
And what of my words?
Were it not for my eyes reflected in yours?
Was it not a moment?
That gentle tremor of lips amused,
Beyond whim,
After dark without.
Too quickly fading leaves.
Where did this flush of cheek simmer from?
And what of my words?
Were it not for my eyes reflected in yours?
Was it not a moment?
That gentle tremor of lips amused,
Beyond whim,
After dark without.
1993
© MARCO MOONE 2008
