It's the night of the 21st. Monday.
The skyline stands out in the mist.
Some idiot figured out, one day,
That love on this earth can exist.
And through ignorance, boredom, frustration,
They believed him. And that's how it goes --
They make rendez-vous, fear separation,
And they sing of their joys and their woes.
But some others see through this delusion,
And a silence descends, soft and still;
I once happened to reach this conclusion,
And since then it's as if I've been ill.
The only thing I can add is that it seems to me this poem is as much about cynicism as love -- and on both counts, it's profound.
(No deeper meaning to me posting this. I've had it around for a while and am trying to get everything done all at once before packing for a weekend trip.)