Poem: Excerpt 5

 

In the dead of winter I wept

Praying and prostrating myself

Upon the cloth of your infinite compassion;

 

Were I a musician,

I would express your elusiveness

In symphony,

Weaving songs on violins;

 

Were I a poet,

I would declaim your mystery

In rhapsody,

Walking soundlessly on words;

 

I am neither tonight

 

Never having learned,

I am not adept

At recalling

An event that transcends

All attempts,

Transcends language and form,

Transcends communication

Into the fatal realization

Of my own meaningless;

 

Half-veiled,my friend,

I solicit the madness

Which is past cure;

Burnt am I, out of all delusion,

Groveling in a delightful insanity;

 

At times, I may come

Close to loving you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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From Canto 8, The Harvest Season of Love Songs, 1997