To none conquered, yet always seen.
You are everything found and unfound;
But you were never stolen…
No thief of the night could ever keep your grace hidden from lawful eyes.
For there are places for things that are kept:
A vase for the rose, a shelf for books,
The wall for paintings, A room for bed and post,
And the heart for you.
As a room where no windows need be.
And no sun or moonshine could better be
than the glow that you lay over all things.
But you are not a thing of my possession, never to be kept, like objects,
Yet the object of my adoration
No thief am I; rightly do I ask for your stay.
And rightly do you grace me with it;
A step so light,
A look so keen,
The soft curl of your lip;
I caress your smile and cherish the warmth it leaves on my fingers
And your scent… it lingers
Precious little thing, that thought.
Fear has nothing on you.
It was my commandment to seek you,
Yet I just stumbled upon you on my way to self-absorbance.
But isn't that the way we come upon all things, great things, terrible things?
I'll never know, for all seems like bliss for the blind,
And tests for the suspicious,
And providence for the fool.
Does it matter?
I am redeemed by your touch
I am cleansed by your words
I need nothing but you, and I know it
Though knowing will not make me wiser
But having will make me virtuous
Precious little thing, allow me
I'll get the door for you
Just to find myself following you towards the other doors
The ones yet unknown
Always following, but following walking alongside you
Never behind, never ahead,
If only you give me the honor of your grace, never uninvited:
For no thief am I
Just the keeper of your glow.
* * *
Why are you so quiet?
Do you not feel vulnerable in silence?
It's so solemn when nothing is moving:
nightsky adorned by a motionless moon
the wind so strong, but quiet.
And the leaves, suspended.
So many.
So mute.
Your own voice would protect you.
But then the ripple in the river would move;
and thus, to talk (oh, what sweet voice…)
would be to lay so bare.
So cruel.
Why are you so still?
Let only nature stay frozen.
For your warmth would be terribly missed;
that temperate touch you try to conceal.
Sarcastic wit does not become you,
and the vain taste of dramatic aesthetics
for you could never prove real.
You see?, look, there goes one leaf (please sweet voice, never stop flowing).
It all moves again.
And I am shaken with the words spoken.
So brief.
The wind is getting stronger.
And all those eyes are looking closer.
It's no use anymore, pay no attention my love, keep walking
this time forever…
However hopeless.
We could have built a house in this unmoving moment.
If only we could paint ourselves so dark as night while naked,
and vanish...
* * *
Who under the faintest light seeks to see
but a glimmer, the one of such sweet sorrow,
as it guides my way through your heart, and your bounds breaches?
It was I who at the sight of closure's road
looked to stare down the walls of light that I needed to seek...
Then and there, in the sad hour that followed that spectacle, the moon;
inconclusive memories
wild and restless heartbeats
excitable sorrow of a graceful song
All became eager bearers of the answers I looked for.
And their righteous voice would break,
as the soul that forever held their strengths
in dreams like this would weep.
In these dreams,
where we were,
where we existed,
birds of beauty and peace always fluttered closer,
while raindrops and other angels danced over roses.
Then the ever-graceful moonlight would at this time show,
and the limelight of fleeing daylight would fall gentle before our pose.
It was in that place where the most beautiful of beings (oh yes, nature is an entity),
the song of wind,
would take our side and hold us till the eve of dawn.
Where we were,
we would be serenely waiting, serenely playing,
serenely wishing, serenely laying in the arms of us.
Alas, completion of all things pure laid before us;
The moment for the silent storm…
Yet, there was no moment to pay respects to lust.
Where we were,
all words spoken would remain.
All the tears fallen would keep us wet.
The silence within us would then come forth, wondering.
Not to cry, not to love, only to presents bestow;
gripping time by the hand and to hand the angel his timely bow.
But now you are not there.
Never there.
Like a world devoid of art;
a world without the counsel of a song.
Perverse sight, waiting for the upbringing of things unborn.
Knowingly welcoming despair at deception's door.
And hoping against all hope to stand guard against solitude's touch.
But now you don't need to be there, leave empty this room.
Seek new touch, taking with you the moon…
Fair daylight will keep me warm,
light like candles these empty hands.
Yet never again will I by our night be seen…
Though you will, behind the visage of memory, confuse me,
and in the end look for what in shadow you once sought.
And when you seek me in that weakest hour,
it will never be me who you'll confront.
Is the revelation of truth, or anything inevitable,
so wretched a fate,
that you now, unheard, need to seek the strength
which from both would keep you safe?
Oh no, forget these words and the load they bear.
Walk away towards your chosen road
and take with you my deepest care
I loved you then, before the break of dawn
I'll love you ever, until the moon won't show and the wind won't talk
Both as I love you now, when my heart can no longer, gentle, walk.
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