Classic Poem

Do you hear the soft rustle
beside your table?
Don't bother to write
for I'll come to you.

Is it possible you are angry
with me like the last time?
You say that you don't want to see my hands,
my hands or my eyes.

I am with you in your bright, simple room.
Don't chase me away
to where the cold, murky water
flows under the bridge.