DYLAN THOMAS
Post-Christmas, while still groaning from the excesses of the past few days, is perhaps a suitable moment to introduce a slender poem that has been pared down from a weighty and somewhat overwrought original.
May my waistline follow its example.
LOST LOVERS
They lie entwined on an unmade bed,
whisper promises that won’t be kept,
leave not a thing unsaid
but say too much, afraid
love may have vanished while they slept.
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