It was not mystery or grief,
Nor the wise will of fate –
It was the impression of strife,
Our meetings always left behind.
From dawn I’d anticipate
The moment when you’d appear,
Feeling faint stabbing pains
All along my folded arms.
And with dry fingers I’d crumple
The table’s chequered cloth…
I knew then, already,
How small this earth truly is.
