The meeting by the borderline

Another sad-eyed Lady.

He left them all so cold,

Business like,

In his hasty, reckless youth.

Retreating down the road,

But it couldn’t be helped,

He thought then,

Things could not stay as they were,

No anchors did he seek,

So don’t think twice.

Then he came once more,

along the old country fair,

Just there, where the winds beat,

That north country dame,

cried for him, in those salad days,

Turned bile.

Now it is his turn to cry,

Upon the beaten earth.

He remembers her,

But she fails to recall,

Though the tremor in her heart,

Rang once like an anvil,

For him.

Her long hair,

fallen from chemo,

Her coat , a passing present,

Of whose, she cares not,

Not that it warms her nowadays,

Even in summer.

Sad-eyed lady,

He cries, regrets of a thousand years,

Of rites performed,

With no sincerity,

She cares not for Arabian drums,

It is too late for that,

The parched lips,

Of the country fair,

Remember no farewell words,

No blaming either,

But regret and disappointed tears.

Wise man tell that a stone,

Cast into the well,

Can not be retrived,

By the smartest of men,

Her eyes are wells,

Her love an irretrievable stone,

Though he is too wise now.

He walked down the country fair,

Back , returning to the cruise,

Burning in bitter shame,

For the first time he did so.

And he knows,

The troubadour,

That despite his immortal songs,

She did not remember.