He outstretched his arms and told me,
" I know her.This is the creation of your imagination. But where's the other one?"
Sadness, spreadeagled like a wall between our gardens.
My sheep are not back from the green pastures.
Child is still asleep.
I'm on the last line of my poem, short of a word.
She stood behind me, veiling her face with a smile,
Being my root, like a flower opted to be disdained.
"Give me an ear, I shall give you a word."
And I replied, "She's infallible and not visible!"