The Old Man Remembers Young Love

Love, the list of helplessness,How could I even make a start,To tell of the bliss and tragediesThat tear the human soul apart.Free is the eye to gather inThe light of a lovely face,Until desire's concupiscenceDestroys the staggering thing in place.Made for the task is the sentient handTo cultivate life's blood and flowers.Queen's Lace and the sunlit MarigoldLitter the pilgrim's passing hours,Until there comes the last of love,All of it wrapped in hope's bright paper.The strongest push, the last reservesWhich cannot be stilled or left for later.It's here the shrine bound take their standAmong these ruins, sunk in sand,To find the lady's head is bentAnd cooing on a younger man.Then does pain rise up gigantic,Like a living mountainside,Smashing through the dike of youthWith all the past and all that died,Screaming in a hurricane of senses.One finally reads what pity sends.Its message does not make amends.It states that grief has met its endAnd you will never love, like that, again.

Carl Estrin