Love, there was never an audience
Only the taste of a premonition
That died so easily in your hands
And my life was an illusion
But my dreams had a vividness to me
You were never old to me, I never tired of your
Native voice, the April lift of your soul
The green Junes burning in your hair
The majesty of your words
That my songs could never dear
Summers died at your feet
Love, I roamed beaches and years
Trailing the path you had fled
And white as the sun, I never tasted you
Only an invisible promise of hope
That bled in me when I thought of you.
Wuji Seshat 