“The
winds of March,”
she
sang -- a long, time ago,
“that
make my heart a dancer…”
with
her tiny voice, oh, so mellow,
“A
telephone rings, but who’s to answer?”
It
breaks my heart, dear Lord, for now I know,
it
rang for me, then, and I was not there…
“A
fairground’s painted swings,”
went
the old song, “these foolish things
remind
me of you…”
Oh,
dear Lord, they still do, as I long for you,
windblown,
forlorn, with this melody
ringing
in my head -- a missed call
once
ignored, now haunting me…
The
march of time has swept all,
leaving
behind this melody…
Tatul
Sonentz
2015
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