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.