FACING THE HILLS

My old fancy is tens of miles away;
Gut-like- ridges have had us for years stayed.
In the full moon I see her face wax and wane
Facing the hills, my heart begins to pine.
Lingering Scents of her perfume still thrill me with tremendous intensity,
Clutching on her cold pillow; but whom can I blame?
I’d wish to meet her, but I’ve no means.
Nor writing nor meeting her in a dream abates my nostalgia.
In a dim mirror, I see my beard is neglected with care.
I have no desire to groom. Since we parted, I’ve grown thin for her.

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