Vuelta
I know, perhaps, that other loves
Have trod this way
Where now the crab grass grows.
And as I gaze out over weeds
And rocks and thorns and brambles
There is a flame that sometimes briefly shows.
So here, I’ll slip the catch,
Draw back the bolt that bars the garden gate
For there’s a song, a heart, a thrush among the tangles.
Amidst the nettle leaves, the robin softly calls its mate
Soft through the mist the murm’ring memories flow …
Frank Krishner ,1992, Gangtok, Sikkim
I know, perhaps, that other loves
Have trod this way
Where now the crab grass grows.
And as I gaze out over weeds
And rocks and thorns and brambles
There is a flame that sometimes briefly shows.
So here, I’ll slip the catch,
Draw back the bolt that bars the garden gate
For there’s a song, a heart, a thrush among the tangles.
Amidst the nettle leaves, the robin softly calls its mate
Soft through the mist the murm’ring memories flow …
Frank Krishner ,1992, Gangtok, Sikkim
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