In those afternoon talks,
Blended in those merry-time walks,
She asks me out of the blue,
When I had absolutely no clue,
To speak out from my heart,
What I had scribbled in those moments apart.
The poet in me faltered,
And tried to gather the woven shard,
In an attempt to enchant,
The lady who cared to like the broken verses of this Rembrandt.
I fail to recite what she wishes to hear,
I fail to understand why she can bear,
I fail to interpret her desire to listen,
I fail to rely on this faint superstition.