The Wanderer (A Sonnet)

By Klaris Chua

A trace of gloom upon thy withered face
I stroked it, thou soyned not to notice me
Thence, I allotted my tepid embrace
A dun ne’er felt was forsaken by thee

Trussed a bouquet of blooming roses,
Thou swiftly ran athwart the barren land
‘Til the garden of remembrance flashes
Essence of tragedy almost at hand

Beside a tombstone, thou sat down and wept
“Dear, my love, in my arms I’ll swathe you”
Alas! ‘twas this lass thy heart gently kept
But as I see those inscriptions, wind blew...

They’re for my grave, those blooms of brilliant red
Ne’er did I discern I’m already dead.