Where the sirens don’t mean anything
by Frank Watson
My feet are tired
after a long walk
on the burning concrete
of Manhattan.

In the distance
somewhere past
the building walls
I smell the sweet
virgin fragrance
of lilies.

Without knowing it
I’m drawn past all the horns
and sirens that echo
from pavement to street . . .

And I see in her pupils
the love of a woman.


All writings and translations are Copyright © by Frank Watson, also writing as "Blue Flute" (2011-2014).
Year: 
2013