Sometimes at the dying of the day,
I sit and watch the last
written lines
of evening,
when purple ink
runs down
the page of shadows,
and I regret
not having written it
myself.


Sometimes at the parting of the way,
I stand and watch the last
regretful glimpse
of yesterday,
when dry brown leaves
blow through
my Autumnal heart,
and I regret
not having acted
in a different play.


Sometimes in the meadow where we lay,
I hear the final echoes
of your goodbye
fading away,
vanishing whispers
hold me
one last time,
and I regret
that there was nothing
I could say...