A Meeting

A Meeting

He held the door open for her to walk in,
watching her all the way
as she settled on the sofa,
her face withered, no sign of knowledge
of where she was all those days.
He could see, it was somewhere far away.

The sag in her posture where once was a majesty
the eyes where once was a ray
of the quick insight and the mellow sympathy
now spoke of a different story.
He could see that the wounds and the scars were many,
too many for her to carry
and for him to help unload.

So many pages were lost or erased,
some eaten by the moth of time,
and some pages did not know that there exists a box called memory.

He did not know what to hold up to her,
a lamp or a mirror
whereby she could know
where to find her lost self,
by the light of the lamp
on the lost continent of her heart,
or in the reflection in the mirror
which would perhaps alienate
her further from the image of what she was.

And so they sat in the silence
of the space and the silence of the night,
not able to find a bridge
between a loss of language
and the loss of speech.