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He, too could feel a gentle stir that night.
Before it blossomed though both were asleep.
He dreamed of falling from a scary height
too late for precious promises to keep.
Back in the lantern room the scent of wine
soothed swollen tissue near the Edelweiss.
Reflecting in the amber light a noble brine
crying in misery. Fire and Ice.
The staircase always groaned. It was despair.
They raised their glasses, best of Greek Metaxa,
so many liquids and such eagerness to share
hoarse whispers now and lingua laxa.
Herbert Nehrlich
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