Saturday, August 16, 2008

under the branches there are shadows.

Under the branches there are shadows
as the light is cast in torrents
through their fingers like nets. All interwoven, all around.
And the moments, they all wait for your return
when I will wake upon your shoulder.

There are many questions in my mind. Many questions,
but there is no word. Only your silence, your word of silence,
your word of the waiting day. So I lie down, silent.

Once there was a dream, quietly but near.
In this dream there was a voice.
In the voice of the dream there was a sign.
Hungry hours collide as silence.

We sat together by the cold water
in the early morning: in my dream, I had woken.
That cup is made for wine, he said. Come
away from this stream,
you with the dusty feet. I will show you
a table of gold, and streams of wine,
and crystal streets.

So it seems, after all, there is a table,
in the world inside the world.

We sailed together on the high tide.
Any time now my anchor will settle
and I will be still.
Every hour, now, your footsteps sound across the waves
and I am listening.

I am listening to the rain on the sea,
to the roar of its songs,
to the young wind crying.
Only the step after step has faded.
Here we sit together in the old way
listening to the oceans;
but you have not spoken, like once you have spoken.

(Or if I were listening:
After all this time,
we are going to the place from which we came.)

As I woke the light was fading, among the branches.
It fades, but it rekindles every morning.
I fade as well, but I will wake upon your dawning,
and know that you are listening.
So I lie down, silent.

No comments:

Post a Comment