You are.
Into the long longing corner of our sameness
A season in disguise at noon
The grapes of never planted harvests,
The sleep of foster seeds and cherry trees in bloom.
A self-reflecting sunbeam in a guilty spring.
You were mine.
Before the two World Wars illiterate dead
became wheat
then white bread;
before their sharp, prayless bones
became coat of arms;
before their thirsty, all bleeding kisses
became history textbooks;
Unsinful.
Like the untouched weeds of a parental grave
The entrance to a candleless cathedral
The stone transition
From a future bride’s to the other woman’s finger
The unfound wounded wing.
You are to be.
The unborn yet of all the hunted species
The trophy for a buried sunset…
For all my days after tomorrow
My magic carpet.
Into the long longing corner of our sameness
A season in disguise at noon
The grapes of never planted harvests,
The sleep of foster seeds and cherry trees in bloom.
A self-reflecting sunbeam in a guilty spring.
You were mine.
Before the two World Wars illiterate dead
became wheat
then white bread;
before their sharp, prayless bones
became coat of arms;
before their thirsty, all bleeding kisses
became history textbooks;
Unsinful.
Like the untouched weeds of a parental grave
The entrance to a candleless cathedral
The stone transition
From a future bride’s to the other woman’s finger
The unfound wounded wing.
You are to be.
The unborn yet of all the hunted species
The trophy for a buried sunset…
For all my days after tomorrow
My magic carpet.
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu