COLMAR from Les Trois Epis ( Words by Paul F. Cowlan)

In what hidden rooms there?
What startling eyes?
What summer nights passing?

Memory makes legends of them now;
set in the past,
receding,
impossibly distant,
but clear;
down to the last raindrop
or chime of glasses,
the dust of hot afternoons,
hands fragrant with wine.

Across the valley
the last light is on the mountains.
A pale moon is already up,
encumbered with cloud,
and spring advances among the high snows.

The sky burns suddenly in final defiance,
and a single ray of sunlight illuminates the city
as if it were some holy place,
a lost paradise
towards which I spend my whole life travelling.