This girl facing you
Wants to say something to you,
Not like your ex, who runs away—
Talk only annoys her, and she has nothing to say—
But this nervous and beautiful girl
Wants to, but is afraid to speak; the first
Notes are a symphony’s best;
But love’s first words, the worst.
Lovers in the middle of love’s passionate path
Recall the first clumsy, contrived words of love, and laugh.
What curiosity and respect there used to be!
Now my ex pokes and humiliates me.
She’s no longer in my heart. Her insulting attitude
Condemns her forever. True love is never rude.
Now this new girl faces me each day
As if she had something to say.
Perhaps she wishes I would say what she
Knows could possibly be
The beginning of her life.
Or, at least, a symphony.
A shower of sorrow and strife
Begins. Timpani. Woodwinds. Brass. Strings:
My sorrowful past, hers,
And then, like the first bird, after a storm,
From the clearing in the wood, a distant oboe sings.
