So Much Was Left to Say

There was so much to say
when my days were green—
I looked into the eyes of fear
and waited for the good season.
The whole day passed
cutting words into pieces,
locking my mouth;
they were never spoken.
 
A furtive glance,
eyelids lowering,
the mind’s green turning grey—
my story of loving you
was never told.
 
Now the years have grown heavy,
youth nearly at its edge;
I waited so long
to love you,
yet today
the old surge of feeling
did not arrive.
 
So much was there to say,
so long the waiting—
easy to be a fool
while knowing better.
On this soil,
it is simpler to fight for love
than to speak of it.
 
So many people,
so many illnesses;
the hunger of the heart,
the weight of tenderness—
across the rice fields of labour,
I lost the road.
 
Under the noon’s full blaze
with the burden of grief,
I walked the narrow ridges
between crops,
words flowing upstream,
brushing the courtyard’s edge.
 
Dream, yearning, and careful imagining
sat together by the window.
There was so much to say—
but the words
never came.