A woman in a melancholy dress—as translucent as tea—danced with alacrity
Unnerved was I as she unfathomably came to me
I gave her a short kiss, a twirl, & bought her pisco de agrio, wine that is sour
Twas the joyous moment; 'tis still within me the echoing hour
The day I met the woman, the saint, who briefly took from sad men their limes
She will forget me in time.
As the sands blow away
Deafeningly, screechingly, I decay, hearing the old cliché:
Nothing gold can stay
While the sands fade into wind & ghost noises, as they always do
I am a speck of sand, too.
Yet even specks of sand can, for time that's no time, take shape
That is, I can remember, before I die and evaporate.
I recount how she was warm, tending to any lonely men she was seeing
Helping, healing, giving, accompanying, was her state of being
But dedication to a mere single man was not her philosophy
She sought to, abruptly, give instant reliefs to all of humanity
How momentous it was, however its brevity, to me!
Yet to her, I was 1 case in 1 million, of a sharing of a burden of a lime
As these sands blow away, she'll forget about me—in time.
