What has she read in that one page of lines?
Perhaps the ending of a love affair,
Confessions of a husband's ardent crimes?
Could it be resignation or despair
That causes her to drop what may be rhymes
Of passion without peer, without compare?
In mourning is this reader? Or in bloom?
As supine as new love and as the tomb.

Or could it be that piece of paper's old,
Awakening the death of which she read -
Her own sweet child, her precious, uncontrolled
Dear soldier boy who never knew he bled?
How long could a mother's fingers hold
The leaf on which such haunting news is spread?
As to that leaf I am a blind voyeur,
And blind assuming it's addressed to her.

Could it not be written in her hand,
Confessing to affections not outgrown?
Does she regret or does she understand
The reasons why the letter was not shown?
Happiness, from her, has long been banned;
Mournful music now her chaperone.
In deep reflection is this once coquette;
Reflections slowly burn her cigarette.