Wandering through the blue
and tranquil laziness of purer days,
I felt the glance of marble eyes
of modest gods of love that touch us
but move on when we think we're saved.
As light on landscapes makes holograms
of old red barns that fade as dusk
and sorrow lays color aside,
barren as a statue there
those modest gods of love appear.
They touched on something once as I
checked dog-eared calendars for dates
and made as Adam, Paradise
- youth in the mirror - betraying age.
They move on when we think we're saved
now I have nothing, save a day,
a scent of old books, diaries,
the last rays in a summer sky.
What could those modest gods of love have now
that have escaped from Adam's eyes?