This love will never be mine

The day whose aroma will never reach me 

Is moist of fresh-cut grass.

It is flowers whose scent is softer 

And lighter than their velvet petals.

It is leaves that breathe 

And in doing give their bouquet to me.

The morning I shall never hear

Is frost crisp broken underfoot

By an animal outside my window.

It's the far-off windless bristling

Of the sun as it pushes its way through the trees.

And this sun I shall never see

Does more than dance upon the water.

It pierces the water and weaves its way

Among the waves until it emerges from its knitting

A thousand different threads.

The chalice from which I shall never drink 

Overflows with a wine sweeter, crisper,

And cleared than Bachus’ ever was.

So crisp and sweet it bites the tongue

And flows through the teeth until it coldly

Reaches a receptive throat.

And the child I shall never touch 

Is so fair the sun does not touch .

Instead she surrounds her softly

So she may stand in an effervescent golden cloud.

As she runs against a grass green background,

Her laugh piercing the trees.

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