For stirrings now
that were dormant,
I’d have given gold back then.
Or led the course of rivers
which gazed back unreflective,
towards unassailed sun pasture;
they should be spendid.
Instead of the half life,
I’d have spent more than gold,
perhaps even life itself,
but it wasn’t mine to give
in twilight.
Only through the mists that lifted
did I see strength and know,
dear friend, dear love.
