You hear my voice

only through the Psithurism of these pages

My name is but an echo

that resonates in your vital heart once at mid day.

Grief is a lonely space

that wreathes me with an all too familiar scent

This realm of solitude

bathes my skin with the milk of despair

listen to my voice

even though it sounds more or less like poisonous venom

perhaps someday you’ll find me

(I imagine someday soon) In the land of angels

If I am rebuked by the ebbing waves,

or singed by the orange orb

You may leave a white rose

next to my non-existent love for the unseen