It was a weary autumn night,
Fruitless trees were rustling
Complaints of undermined might,
A chill wind was blowing
Under the illuminated sky, lighted
By a place far from sight, close in mind;

“It could almost be daylight,”
She said, for we stood together,
And although we both knew
It was true
Of this lonesome autumn night,
I was silent, she was still;

I spoke, “If daylight it is,
Then let us enjoy it,”
A flash of black, she had turned
Towards me with a smile
Unfolding across her face
As a butterfly its wings;

Another blinding flash, she had turned,
Her face was sullen, as though in mourning,
She was in mourning over something
Incomprehensible,
Many times I had asked her what this
Thing was, she would reply, when she did,

“Voids
       Filled with things that never were,”
So I said to her, as if out of a memory,
  “And never will be,
  But as long as we are,
  What do they matter?”

She smiled wanly
In acknowledgment, but we both knew nothing
Could be done;
So now it was my choice
To stay or leave her
While in solitude;

To leave would abandoning
All trust and commitment,
Built with labor and time,
But if I stayed, I could
Be nothing of a comfort,
Except to feel her pain more deeply;

“I’ll never abandon you,”
She sighed and we stayed in place,
It was a choice made long ago,
So together we stood, motionless, and
Watched
This bitter autumn night.