by Mary-Lynn Allard
6-14-99

The voices of the past call to me
In whispers breathing through the woods,
Rustling the leaves with their sorrow,
And in endless sighs,
Howling along the barren cliffs with their blame.

I hear them as I walk the endless night
Accusing me for the seeds of a thousand sorrows
I carelessly planted in the fertile loneliness of your heart,
Watered with your unshed tears
And harvested with aching hope.

I can bear the night, the pain, the sorrow,
The mockery of the moon, bastard child of the sun,
Taunting me with the silvery light
That can neither reveal nor warm,
For tomorrow I will be with you.

Tomorrow will come with its bright hope
Silencing the voices of sadness and loss.
Tomorrow will come bringing your smile,
Your embrace, and your love.
If only tomorrow would come.

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