Stop. I have this postal scene, don't you see?
from a Paris visit an age ago.
Still un-sent--what I witnessed, let it be.
Recalls an ideal I would have us know.
I cried that last visit, felt left bereft--
moved so by what I'd seen and to death loved--
could not this memory? . . . my heart is cleft.
Imagine you had seen this scene of doves.
My eyes now weaker than those days before.
Dreams and hopes did not die with careless ease.
This postcard I kept live, and days of yore.
The pursuit and pact I've never ceased.
End my hold thus my mind to spread this view?
Alas, now to share I've none, or close to few.
