I’ve been waiting for 50 days,

Yet I wrote with my favourite pen.

Maybe our love was just a phase,

But I’d appreciate a reply every now and then.

Sent to the war in the finest uniform,

Made it myself with working hands.

Your young son was never born,

Died from infection of swollen glands.

Every frost and nightfall pops up like toast,

Clocks are counting endless hours.

I’m still waiting for the mailman with post,

Or a bucket of wine, or diluted flowers.

Crisp and golden, the paper is crumpled,

Soggy from my washed tears.

My mind of thoughts so jumbled,

I think of you laughing with pals over beers.

How much more should I suffer?

I seem to be fighting my own battle.

Waiting for you downgrades me to be tougher,

Only to be entertained by my dead baby’s rattle.

The ink is seeping off the table,

Trees dying in vain with no papered reply.

I may be a woman but I’m oh so stable,

Still be here whether you live or die.

Here comes the postman with a smile on his face,

I’m starting to feel much more better.

But alas he goes to a different space,

It’s been 51 days and there’s still no letter.