have been shared
between lovers,
one alone in his room,
the other in a garden,
missing in time's flow
their embrace
before the world ever was.
The past certain,
the future the same,
they shall be forever
quietly happy together,
but presently
in time flows
the loneliness
of tears.
The pain inside
turns quickly to joy,
not mere pleasure
which is too weak to share
When I think of you
flying over seas
and mountains
as I sit in my chair.
— Romanós
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