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Rated: E · Other · Health · #1375850
A poem by Juliet Forshaw
When one has forgotten how to love, he has lost his rapture in the early
morning sun, as it rises tenderly in the east.

When one has forgotten how to love, he is no longer charmed by the sweet rhythm of the blackbird, as she sings gaily from her branch, he covers his ears as she begins to make a sound.


When one has forgotten how to love, there is no delight in the bitter morning frost, it only makes his hands feel cold.


When one has forgotten how to love, he also forgets how to live, and instead starts learning how to die.

© Copyright 2008 Juliet Forshaw (julietforshaw at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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