A Date At A Cafe Poem by Nero CaroZiv

I had a date with a past middle age woman upon whom I set and gazed
The measures she took to hide her waning, evaporating beauty left me amaze
She was all wrapped in colorful deceit and counterfeit labors
A mask of musk that so immodesty displays nature's gone favors
With its fallacious arguments of colors and elaborate cloth
Is to the senses a cunning counterfeit and cynic loath

As she spoke, she seemed never to leave the comfortableness of forty plus
Although her look was progressing much beyond to the point of collapse
I had seen her before sitting in a dark café or in flickering bars
There in street café table she sat a grim desolate cloudy figure
Legs crossed; top buttons loose to announce the world her love scars
Nevertheless, prying eyes did surveyed her half disclosed body with passionate eager

She spoke and I listened, saying her life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
That It rained too long, and the wind moaned, was relentless and ever weary;
That her thoughts were still clinging to the moldering reminiscences of her past,
But the hopes of youth and green grass glory fell thick in the day blast,
And her days were dark, long and dull, I sat in street café unsure
How long that conversation would last? How long I could endure?


The day of the date was not cold, or dark or dreary;
It did not rain and the wind was gentle breeze never weary;
The vine at the open yard still clanged to the moldering outside wall,
And at every gust the shining leaves bounced from fall,
And the day was bright spring at the sill of the world, with colossus bloom.
Around us forest of tables of young amorous lovers untouched by age gloom.

Our sad hearts; mine no less than hers; as if stall and cease repining;
Behind the faint high clouds the sun was still shining;
Our fates were the common fate of humans as all,
Into each life some rain in dark days must pass and fall,
We are all in the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impressed at years of youth:

By our remembrances of those days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
At the end of the day I asked my date
Is it possible to assemble the partial fragments of our fate
From two lonely jars; fatigue, tattered; life done
And to create a renewed one?


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