Amour, off Haneke.

 And I wanted to write poems out of this

Yet all I got, coming to think of it,

Was a quiet hour of abandonment,

A mourning flower sealed upon my lips.

Amour depicted by forthcoming,

Silent retreats of a love supreme,

A vast feeling of repair after they’d parted.

Oh! I wanted to write poems out of this

Yet all I got in return, when you come to think of it

Something more subtle than the play required

A few broken words could do the trick

A few phrases on a pin of numb desire

If I could scribble on a piece of sheet

The calm grief of the soul dying

How I wanted to write poems out of this

Yet all I got to spare, needless to say

nor to be shared so eloquently, Red Fire!

Was the mental picture of her death,

The long goodbyes written in her eyes,

And did It hurt, and how it hurt when it did hurt.