The music of your words
was high in my ear
and every morning I cursed the wind
that blew us apart
but the sun was shining
when I last saw you.

Perhaps the heated words of song
shall sound again
and people, free,
will die the death they choose
and I will tell the wanderings of
the sacred muse
and bring all those thoughts back to me.

'We reported back to hearts
what we had seen
and told our footsteps all about
where we had been'.


Index of Frank's Diaries