Drawing a line

It takes a pencil to draw a line
which separates us so simply
that the gods in their mercy
drew them ever so far away.

Poets in their flights
of eternal sadnesses and beauty
from this line alone have spun
these words of eloquence and fury:
Till mountains disown their valleys
And the heavens and earths are one,
These monstrous lands between us
Shall echo hate, and love in time.

Painters with every color
guide their strokes subtly
to some imagined end or meeting-
Music in its guise
draws our soul from these lines
of bold, but now receding-
gentle waves upon our shores

Leaving me with a pencil
to draw a line between us,
where we shall meet,
where we shall not pass-
a line for us to see
where the sunset becomes of me
to you, a sunrise waiting
on the other side

Of this line I struggle to erase,
my hands smudged in grey
to reach nothing but a shore
where my watery fingers struggle
to reach as far as once before
in a day

Or in a night, or perhaps, kindly,
in an evening of delight, or blindly
walking together and stopping together
and waiting together along those streets
and intersections and routes,
among those lines we heard together,
I can only remember you saying-
"Thanks for waiting with me."