At The Last Watch

Pity, in place of love,

    That pettiest of gifts,

Is but a sugar-coating over neglect.

    Any passerby can make a gift of it

        To a street beggar,

Only to forget the moment the first corner is turned.

        I had not hoped for anything more that day.

You left during the last watch of night.

    I had hoped you would say goodbye,

          Just say 'Adieu' before going away,

    What you had said another day,

              What I shall never hear again.

                In their place, just that one word,

Bound by the thin fabric of a little compassion

          Would even that have been too much for you to bear?

          When I first awoke from sleep

                    My heart fluttered with fear

            Lest the time had been over.

              I rushed out of bed.

      The distant church clock chimed half past twelve

              I sat waiting near the door of my room

                  Resting my head against it,

    Facing the porch through which you would come out.

Even that tiniest of chances

  Was snatched away by fate from hapless me;

  I fell asleep

        Shortly before you left.

Perhaps you cast a sidelong glance

            At my reclining body

    Like a broken boat left high and dry.

  Perhaps you walked away with care

            Lest you wake me up.

  Awaking with a start I knew at once

            That my vigil had been wasted

  I realised, what was to go went away in a moment,

        What was to stay behind stayed on

            For all time.

Silence everywhere

  Like that of a birds' nest bereft of birds

        On the bough of a songless tree.

With the lifeless light of the waning moon was now blended

        The pallor of dawn

  Spreading itself over the greyness of my empty life.

                  I walked towards your bedroom

                                    For no reason.

                      Outside the door

              Burnt a smoky lantern covered with soot,

            The porch smelt of the smouldering wick.

Over the abandoned bed the flaps of the rolled-up mosquito-net

                    Fluttered a little in the breeze.

            Seen in the sky outside through the window

                        Was the morning star,

                    Witness of all sleepless people

                        Bereft of hope.

Suddenly I found you had left behind by mistake

Your gold-mounted ivory walking stick.

      If there were time, I thought,

      You might come back from the station to look for it,

      But not because

  You had not seen me before going away.