THE EMIGRANT

There was a time when, long ago, I wrote of fields of daffodils, Of forests green, the harvest moon, Of sunlit days when you and I Walked hand in hand, each day's delight, Then kissed the night 'tween snowy sheets Made soft and warm by love's sweet joy. Now all is ash, a formless shroud Of sleepless nights and cold, dark days All joy is lost, the future bleak With yearning heart, I eat, and live, Fulfil the tasks that life demands Yet were I now there by your side, Deep in the earth, both cold and still, Then peaceful rest I'd find at last In death's embrace, all life now past. I wake, and with the morning light, Look out upon this foreign land 'Twas harsh and strange to our young eyes, With searing heat and flooding rains, A land of fire, drought, despair ~ Yet others see this land as theirs And treasure all its secret ways Perhaps with time I'll see its charm, Forgive the toil that broke your heart, As every child you bore with pain Became a name on graven stone, Its time on Earth so briefly spent, Held in our arms a short, sweet while. Though memories linger, time has passed The will to live is deep and strong Your brightest smile still holds my heart There's work to do; I must go on Your brightest smile will be my guide ~ These words I write are best forgot.
Inge Meldgaard 2013