The warm wind blows, and the streetlamp
Indicates the dusk I don’t remember falling
Descending, not as a crashing waterfall
But as the smothering pillows of the south.
And wishing – wishing she were here
Not as she is now, but as she was before
Before a brother’s love had turned to hate
And memories turned sour by tainting age.
I wish away the cold, deceitful time
Marked only by the passage of a field
Not mine, into another’s hands
As confiscating rattles from a child
And I the thief, and nothing from it gained
Yes, I the thief – and nothing from it gained.