In the village where I went to school
the cobbler had dark eyes a black mustache
and a beautiful daughter called Sarah.
She was unlike other girls petite
with hair made of glossy ink
and she had fire in her brown eyes.
In class she used to turn
give me a quick smile a flash of her eyes
and in my puny chest
the bird of love flapped its wings
when I shyly smiled behind sweaty palms.
Then Torvald, the farm boy, came on the scene
my best friend and he wasn’t even black,
gave me a horse shoe once and some bent nails,
saw him kiss Sarah by the rack
were we used to hang our coats
and forever his face became a mask of betrayal,
thrown down the dungeon of unwanted memories
too late to restore him now.
Sarah, however, will always be pure her picture next to my heart
never fades, how sweet and everlasting abstract love can be.