To Rebecca Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

The curtains of white
Look out upon the sunlight,
Regal and gold.
Recall the old.

What was it in your kiss
That thrilled my soul with a thrilling bliss?
Was it passion alone
And only this?
The vines still climb
The tiers of ancient stone.
And the summery nights still hauntingly chime
Their secrets in a wistful tone.

What was it in your dusky eyes
That lulled me with its lullabies
To make a strong man weak?
Why does the rain upon the pavement speak
Of music in the sacred night?
Could it be I still roam
Through the chambers of your chiming home,
Lost in the fragrance of your tender light?

Why does the refrain
Of the misty rain
Still call me to recall your sight?

Now that you are gone,
What is this trail I ferry upon,
Strewn with roses of white
And scarlet dew?

Why does this strain that carries you
Creep through my mind
With hands that reach out
With gilded rings
And all things kind?
Why do you still stir with ghostly wanderings?
Why are you still about
When sunshine turns to doubt
Of what we were or could have been?
Was there any true love in that cloud of sin?

Why does your song,
Wavering and long,
Still open upon the window sashes
To the same sunny sun
That finds me with no one
Save the remnants of your legacy.
For your flowery ashes
Rise like a phoenix with a languishing clemency
And whisper the strands of your haunting gaze
Which sail like Homer's Iliad
To the sea, to the perfumed waves
In the stunning, saffron, summery haze,
Over your frozen myriad
Of wind-swept graves.

Why does each new opening door
Creak like the specter you wrought upon the shore
As heavy tide follows heavy tide?
If with only you I can abide
Will love fashion for us
A reunion in the skies,
Tailor-made for an eternal buss,
Providential as your lullabies?

And why with weeping
Does your melody rise
With all our secrets silently seeping
Towards the curtained window
With a love that the world can only despise,
Although it shall never know?
Its notes are of a solemn feeling,
As they caress the piano with invisible fingers,
Sending my troubled spirit reeling
With your modest perfume which lingers and lingers.

The curtains of white
Look out upon the sunlight,
Regal and bold.
Recall the old.