The errant sun of October’s crest
Through weeping willow leaves doth peer,
Rests upon our talk unblessed
Of days not yet, but drawing near.

Thou ask’st me when one doth expire,
For sunset’s price, no coin can claim,
Each last light paints a scene higher,
Despite the lace that veils the frame.

From yonder room, on floor the first,
Where gentle mistral whispers low,
Silence strange and scents accursed
Of hospital’s harsh, sterile woe.

Yet still thou believest, firm and true,
That thy god may still intercede,
That some one hearkens unto you,
As prayers in prose you there recede.

I muse on Nietzche, silent stay,
Whilst thou dost speak to cleric grim;
He offers thou his dreadful way,
A potion vague to solace him.

Then mother-in-law with flowers drear,
With glances past, the moments gone,
I see the nod, outside I peer,
Pressed against the glass at dawn.

O, would I could gift the scent
O’ rainy streets where we did roam,
To wander as the smoke once bent,
On beach where we found our home.

Thine eyes lone in answers gaze
Unto ruins of me thousand queries,
If but more time, or just a phase,
A moment yet our life reveres.

They told me love’s to watch one leave
From this life’s fleeting foolish flight,
And I now watch thee as I grieve,
Thou art eternal, still, in night.

Marco Delrio

October’s Dusk

SOCIAL & CONTACTS

Mail: delriomarco.md@gmail.com