Sometimes the words, so imagined, 

Seem like the sunrise, 

As I, the sunset whose eyes steal but 

Glimpses of her rising, 

Seem destined for the page that might 

Never again be read, 

Save for the darkness that surrounds me. 

 

But then she returns, always, 

Like time estranged from weight, 

To read me with her light, 

Her eyes that set afire the pages where I settled, 

As I, the shadow of her mystery, 

Illumined by her words, 

Fly for a moment beyond the page.