Joan Margarit

They will not abandon you.
Time will pass, desire— this arrow
of shadow—will rub itself out
and the sensuous, intelligent, loveliest faces
will hide in a looking-glass within you.
The years will fall and books become boring to you.
You will stoop even further,
and lose even poetry.
The cold noise of the city against the window-panes
will gradually become the only music,
and the love-letters that you will have kept,
your final reading-matter.