The Lady in the Camellia 
 
Unheard 
I can still see your unspoken words, 
Unheard yet reverberating in 
A resonance of sweet harmonious dissonance, 
Overtones my eyes recognise as colours 
But which my ears fail to comprehend. 
 
And in their watery reflections, 
Your eyes also have their music 
Transparent and wordless like unvoiced vowels 
Silent like the camellia I hold in my hand. 
 
And if I tilt this flower 
And you come tumbling out, 
Wings ruffled and delicious in your impotent rage 
Would you not utter a single admonishing phrase 
I gaze upon the flower, this miniature garden 
Glorying in nature's flawless imperfections, 
And see only the product of a sterile yard, 
No faerie, no feminine presence 
Nothing more than a garden weed. 
 
Perhaps all this is not music, not poetry, 
No garden of words and other intelligible sounds, 
No lost language a tiny human being might speak, 
Only the end note of the last lark, 
Rising on its final evening ascent, 
The note not even he can hear nor even knows he's uttered, 
The note that neither bids goodbye nor greets in open arms, 
But simply says, "You are Alone," 
 
The cold autumnal night has descended 
I am lost. I must find my own way home. 
 
© Chesya 2007