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The Anvil Of Young Anger
I’d like, once more, to take your hand.
To walk and to talk as if it were then.
An hour or two spent on the long sea strand.
The white beach the winter blasts free of men.
The Wind in our hair and our shoes full of sand.
Then perhaps we two could agree.
On the true nature of what befell us that year.
For nothing cools quicker than certainty.
Forged on the anvil of young anger.
This last I know and I don’t seek your pity.
I’ve made my own way through.
I only seek understanding.
For I have never loved,
But that I loved you!
