The Age Of Letting Kites Go Poem by Vihanga Perera

One day, from behind an
Oak, wooden door, from among the
Many thousand things she will then
Check in and out to do,
She would not remember you
— That you mattered once, or that you
Offered a part of you in exchange for nothing —

And, she has let go of you now, like
One lets go of the string of a
Kite, yellow and red; for, the
Wind-blow has now changed all rhythm, direction.
That that kite is now quite a meaningless thing.
And in difference to what all in all should be,
She would no longer be lingering.

Of course, I understand: and yes, true,
You loved her. You gave a part of you
That to another you wouldn't give,
And you would dwell deep in her joy, grunt at her despair,
And hold her above judgment, beyond compare,
While, knowing too well that one day you'd cease to mean
What you would mean to her all these years; which is fair.

The troops have marched on,
Burying the dead, marking their resting places with
Crosses grim that stretch far away, like
Demonic beacons in formation, into the sunlight dim;
And you touch the head of what that will never again come,
Fingering a softness, now lost for ever,
Which you may whenever you remember her hum.