The Lady’s Eyes Unfair

“Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.”

– William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850), British poet

(A Stranger She Has Become)

her eyes and mine are magnets of like-poles that
repel at the slightest chance of silent contact.
her eyes, now furtive, either diffident or indifferent,
remote and timid as a river with no torrent.

the soft sheen gone, with no trace of that twinkle,
when she would gaze at me on twilight’s tickle.
her eyes, now stripped of that tint of jealousy,
cold like ice, bereft of any hint of our intimacy.

no sun could spark a sparkle to her once fair eyes.
no moon could lend them moonglow on clear night skies.
and no star could gleam a glimmer from them. (I sadden
since no wink from them would turn me pink as then.)

for her eyes would meet my eyes no more!

glumly, I glance but glean no glint or glisten,
on those eyes that would shed no tears for me again.
my fingers would not flick to flicker her eyelids anymore
and my lips would sow no more kisses on them as before.

for she became what she has become:
a stranger.

– October 2003

– between lover and stranger is elixir.

(c) 2003 Chito L. Aguilar


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