Love’s Fading

Enrique Zaldivar

Thirty minutes to midnight
And he approached me, steadily with tired bare feet,
Spotlighted by the full moon;
He was wearing a white shirt,
Top two buttons missing,
Unwashed for at least a month or so,
Fashionably knee-cut faded jeans,
However, the cuts resemble
Years of capitalist abuse;
His eyes were intriguing,
With his iris complementing the moonbeams,
Filled with hunger, sombre comprehension
Of the world;
There was dirt in every inch of his tiny, slender figure,
But it looked so natural on his dark-skin,
Glittering, and yet, imprecating against civilization;
He was an embodiment
Of the absence of love and affection,
The absence of lovers, writers, gypsies,
Dancers, painters and dreamers,
For he started his day sixteen hours earlier,
With sixteen strings of beaded jasmine flowers,
Fresh, strongly fragrant ones;

Thirty minutes to midnight,
He only managed to sell two of those strings.

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