Where has the romantic gone?
How did she become lost?
Where is the lonely little girl who constantly poured her soul
Into a few choice words—laying bare her life, her heart, and her mind?
I have searched everywhere, yet she remains lost.
I see a form; it could be her.
Instead I am confronted with some glowering old woman
Whose sour disposition seeps forth from every seam of her face,
and every pore of her skin.
Like the odor of spoiled meat, it surrounds her in a miasma,
full of despair and dislike.
When she sees me, she grabs my sleeve
and demands querulously, “Where is love? Where has it gone?”
“I was a young woman once—in love with life and filled with joy.
Now, here I am dressed in these rags. My hair is coarse and my
face is wrinkled. I do not understand. How did I come to be this way?”
Her tears follow the runnels of her face
until they tumble free and splash against her shawl.
Her claw-like fingers still grip my sleeve
and I find myself patting her age-speckled hand.
Love is so fleeting, so swiftly fading.
With its departure do we lose our youth,
our beauty and our way.
Feeling her pain, I turn her toward the light.
Wiping away her tears, I softly explain
that love is there, in front of her.
For within the light all is joy,
and within the light all is music,
and within the light everything is love.
With a look of awe, she releases me
and reaches toward the light.
As she shuffles forward, her countenance changes.
Her face grows smoother, and her back straighter,
and as the glow surrounds her, somewhere deep
within myself I feel the tones of love resound.