A touch, your golden crown, a thorn,
speaking slowly of love stillborn.
Shall I walk away as I did before,
or lay to slumber on the forest’s peat floor.
Shall I recall once more that stolen kiss,
of lovers stranded between pain and bliss.
I’ll walk away, lest I recall,
A time much better, before the fall.
Moshe Forman, May 2019