Those words which should be said are hard to find
In times when pent emotions run on high —
Content to mimic myths of ancient kind
As if fair Thisbe, parting with a sigh.
Crude painted roses ‘pon the gnarlèd Wall,
A gift unto the only love of mine
I cannot see, but hear her gentle call,
And somehow feel the warmth, such loves define.
If only — O’ if only we could see
Into each others eyes, our truth to tell —
Lo! Were it possible that we could be
Together, then those sordid doubts, we’d quell.
When cracks appear, begone the pensive frown
And steadily, the wall comes tumbling down.