THE FUGITIVE
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your favours, trying to drag you away into the cavern of tears.
You have shattered my freedom, and with its wreck built your own prison.
14
I am glad you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look.
It is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. But day will dawn, my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping.
Who says it is hard to forget?
The mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own foolish persistence.
The stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking cradle; the forest fire falls to sleep on its bed of ashes.
You and I shall part, and the cleavage
c
