Indian Thistles
She was a gust of the wind
fromward an old dancing hall
leaf in air of the auburn Fall
a walk within sage and mint.
So she fled, beloved shadow,
blest feelings cared to adore,
my route to home field yore,
the pain of a thrusted arrow.
There winds cared to bestow,
songs we both heard in dusk,
high were the shadows to ask
of our rejoice in the meadow.
A distant train again whistles,
two stars on remote constrain,
sad are and an immersed pain,
stays amid the Indian thistles.
© 07.17.2012, All Rights Reserved
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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