My sweet Jane looked at me with her
glazed eyes,
it was dipped in fine wine and hors d’oeuvres;
her hip was slender, her legs shaven
and she promised long carefree bliss
all around the contour of her waist.
If I wasn’t thinking about my beloved
trapped behind the land of snow,
whose heartfelt letters arrive
crumbled as she tried to squeeze
her love into words,
her tears into sentences
and I am sure she pressed it
hard against her bosom,
hoping every yearning in her heart
would reveal itself upon my fingertips.
If it wasn’t that her nails are filled with dirt
trying to claw out of the prison walls,
And her throat parched singing
songs, sweet songs of love and freedom
that drift over the cold heartless rocks,
hoping I will hear her ten
thousand miles away, across
my beautiful sad country and its
lonely snow capped mountains.
If it wasn’t for that
I would have knocked down my drink
and taken sweet Jane home.

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