Supposedly

Supposedly, I should find beauty

In the paintings, the great books,

The trees and flowers, the sunrise

And sunset. Supposedly, the wine

Should give me pleasure, as should

The fine foods, the fine architecture,

The music and the poetry. Supposedly,

I should find pleasure in people, their

Good humor, their fine company.

Supposedly I should laugh at the 

Witty jokes, dance to the music

And romp with the children in 

The fields. Supposedly, I should 

take off and see the world,

which, undoubtedly, is full of 

wonders. I should look up

at the night sky, and name all

the constellations. Supposedly,

I should write poetry, and share

it with the world. Supposedly,

I should do all these things

Because that is what life is for.

And yet, I ask myself again and

Again, what is the point when 

In all things, I see her eyes,

In all music, I hear her voice?

It is as if I have been exiled

From my homeland, cut from

The roots of my very being,

All because I cannot see her,

All because I cannot be with her,

And see those lovely eyes.

Supposedly, I should be content

With my lot—I have means to eat,

Means to live. But is this really life,

Is it a life worth living, knowing 

She is not mine?