Crashing, running, sliding, flowing,
a molten flux of lava glowing.
Rippling like the river born,
of gentle muse, of spirits torn.
A saddened eye, desire fled,
a wound from where our passion bled.
Is our sanctuary of no return?
Does hope remain to brightly burn?
The spark removed, the sun no more,
comes knocking on our morning’s door.
Still lost from time, lost from space,
we escape once more that fall from grace.
I await your return, with passion burning,
let love’s heat erupt, to extinguish all yearning.
Moshe Forman, June 2019