a letter to my friend, the poet
(to elizabeth, in loving memory)
the view, its everlasting summer looking in,
I take it all.
the dusty earth and glaring sun,
the rustling leaves, cerulean sky,
at times too much to bear.
your book falls open at its wilful place,
as if by choosing that one for my eyes.
it seems, that life exists for all these moments,
when words touch souls,
to be at one with the poet, the poet, I know.
in closing eyes, I see them all,
the friends that come and those that left.
to feel their touch, their love and presence
and lingering words from long ago.
theirs are the words to keep their promise,
theirs, the message to hold all truth,
theirs, the words never spoken, theirs, still touching my soul.
but for the voice of a poet, set in its glorious rhyme,
when verse becomes music and writings turn gold,
a view finds expression, created with passion
and keeping no secret, revealing all.
setting the present, the past and the future,
like words never spoken but touching the soul.
beate christina tügel