Yesterday, 06:12 PM
In this my waiting
Ah, in this my waiting,
how fast October goes,
how swiftly day fades into dark.
My melancholic rose,
like one who sailed an ancient river
where the green papyrus grows -
like her, like you: no age can wither,
nor custom stale. Your nose
may be substantially shorter,
but there’s poetry in your prose.
Ah, in this my waiting,
how fast October goes,
how swiftly day fades into dark.
My melancholic rose,
like one who sailed an ancient river
where the green papyrus grows -
like her, like you: no age can wither,
nor custom stale. Your nose
may be substantially shorter,
but there’s poetry in your prose.