Sunday Evening
There is a void in the pasture of my heart-
or perhaps just a hollow steel.
And where it ends and the bitterness starts,
I have no intentionally feel.
But just as the women cook and clean,
and the children did outplay,
I would look so scornful to the world
who looked back through dismay.
The hate will grow in symbolic pattern,
whether be the coolest eye
watching Spring and Summer flatters
and the moon that passes by.
And grief was just a the pouring rain
out stretching the inner self
through the wretching days of pain
and one's useless pity wealth.
Though, be a void in the pasture of my heart-
Stone colden rock of a hollow steel,
Breathes a gentle warmth upon that newest start,
of what a love so fair could feel.
I saw him in the markets following the dust in the rays,
touching the firmness of each fruit
as he plucked them in his basket to carry 'em away.
He walks away with whistles of a flute.
He had an eye- so pure and blue with lilac speck
And glazed upon the eastern streams.
And all the hate I've learn to built was all now a single wreck,
as I look upon this man of my lusting dreams.
So nevermore- Has the emptiness be filled,
with such a hate so deeply drilled,
for I found a date who I've met in the market
on just a Sunday evening.
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