An escape.

Sing to me
                no more.
Talk not of love,
save me the trouble,
of trying again.
Just leave me,
to my books,
my pictures,
and my sad,
lost lonely looks.

No! Please
                no more.
Not your anguish,
spare me your trouble,
your crying and pain.
Just leave me,
to my books,
my memories,
a fragment,
of the way somebody looked.

But still,
there is a song I listen to.
A song on autumn evenings,
soothing my mind.
Amid this world’s pain,
a song just for me,
singing the words,
I might have written.
It is of course only in my mind,
accompanied by singing birds.

And then,
when night falls,
and the stars shine…
There is a universe all mine.
Oh, the stars,
there for me,
just to look.
So vast,
unearthly.
A stolen page from another book.


Again, I don’t have a date for this but it’s most likely to be 1977/78.

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