I expect in these hours

You, and for the few minutes I actually crave

You, no longer will I be brave.

You will make me sad. I will be your slave.

So I’m afraid these days must go on

Without a signal, without so much as a look,

And that’s why you see me reading a book,

And why these years are crowded with flowers

I pass; because in those hours,

When I expected you,

A minute to a century grew.

Every beat of my heart was a signal to you,

But no one heard them—only me.

And now these flowers grow by the sea.




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