A Regret Less

Being loved in death is not worthy of anyone,

Neither the ones who love,

Nor the one who is loved,

Priceless hours, nights and years must have passed,

With no one to soften the hardened heart,

The mind must have died a thousand deaths,

Mulling over the glorious past,

Tears must have gathered in little corners,

And angry hands must have pushed them far,

Long lonely evenings spent,

Fishing happiness at the bottom of a glass,

Sleep would have been perhaps,

The cruelest of all,

Teasing but never coming close,

Food must have the tastelessness of neglect,

That comes from eating alone.

I fear the adulation of the living means nothing to the dead,

For them it’s better not to know,

How many garlands adorn their lifeless feet,

A regret less for not having seen the face of love.