Ti amo
When all rhetoric is gone,
when all of my words
loose their meaning,
even when my poems are gone
then only the glance
my eyes remain
that says how much I love you
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Could Not Guess
I could not guess how deep my love for you would be,
that it would pierce through all pain and fear,
that you would come into my life
to heal me from years of pain.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When The Early Buds In Spring Begin Opening (Persian / Rubiyat Quatrain)
When the early buds in spring begin opening
and each bird a song of joy does sing
I see the sunshine in your golden eyes
and to me your love does great happiness bring.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Swarm of Swallows
A swarm of swallows turning twittering
tries to reveal with their swishing flight
that a huge thunderstorm is coming
and with electricity the sky is charged pitch black
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Saw Death Come (Rondelet)
I saw death come
by way of a machinegun,
I saw death come
quickly or more slowly to some
while some soldiers did away run;
its visitation I did shun,
I saw death come.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Small Tear Falls
A small tear falls
when she was very happy,
a small tear falls
when endlessly problems came
and makes a confession
about love she has no knowledge,
and a small tear falls
poem by Gert Strydom
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We enter in (Rondelet)
We enter in
a place that is unknown to us
we enter in
a big world that is full of sin
where we learn to love and to trust,
sometimes pleasure and some disgust
we enter in.
poem by Gert Strydom
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If You Know
If you know
how much I do miss you,
if you know
how deep your words at times hit me,
then every glance gets meaning,
is then you know how deep my love is,
if you know…
poem by Gert Strydom
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Yellow, bright and brash wherever I see
Yellow, bright and brash wherever I see
innocent and yet living free
with the spring they are rising,
as their seeds are spreading
as in blasphemy to every cursing industry.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Age Had Killed The Child
Age had killed the child,
but I the adult was uncorrupted,
somewhere I had lost something pure,
while the child was killed slowly;
rebellion I could inherit from the child.
poem by Gert Strydom
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