In the distant end of the phone linecame a voice that would send a thrill
down your spine.
She was a melancholy girl
living in a city, a sea of neon light.
She had to appear to be bright
among the cool and calculated minds.
at time she fooled around with friends
in busy streets and carousing bars.
She would rather lock herself home
with Buddhist chanting on.
She was both innocent and experienced.
No snapshots could capture
her moments of various blossoms.
She had suitors with fortunes
lining up for her in patience.
Yet, her mind seemed
hovering over the moonlit water,
searching for a nameless sailor
bewildered on the chilly sea,
yearning to grow a seagull’s wings.
Years roll on and on
until you have only the phantom of her youth.
She may vanquish or grow old in an alien land.
She is Wordsworth’s Lucy
and Yeats’ Maud Gonne.
Evening, December 2, 2010