It might be if I were or will be there,
I would somehow dance inside your hair,
But then again, I'd say that I am here--
The elemental joy of being near--
Around and inside yourself, myself--
Like books, that sleep or slept upon the shelf,
Miasmically and tragically appear--
Sweet sonorous, you beam and laugh, unfolding,
We are indeed inseparable, holding,
Caressing our memories, my dear--
There is, there are sweet nothings in this world
That block the lucid verses from the ear,
But if you try to listen, you might hear
The gentle waves like syllables of the heart--
As our thoughts encroach and depart
Within the sea of hopes, dreams and fears;
And what is I to say and you to say?--
In the bright light of the ascending sun,
Where our minds like wild horses run
Amidst all that is false and insincere--
Like Chomsky's colorlessly green ideas.
January 8, 2010