L'aura del Campo

To not be loved

To not be loved

In absentia I call out.
What is left when all has fled
—flames of youthful mourning
—fire of our building rage
—embers of elder evenings.
And what has been lost.

I call out,
a fading remnant of my gift to you,
echo that does not come back.
To love, yet to not be loved.
To give what must be given freely
without expectation,
without hope.

To love what must be loved.
To love who must be loved.
No word.
No echo in return.

© Kåre Enga [20.february.2016]

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