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The Ancient Mists of Love
I.
Like a grayish invisible cloud,
like unshed invisible rains,
the mist of your killed desires
covers all over the Vanity Land.
From above
the cloud oppresses your mind.
Ashes of resolutions, stultified vows--
like a grayish invisible cloud.
Will it shed rainwater some day?
From above.
But your soul is badly attached
to desires, killed long ago,
and the deadly captivity now
is like fetters, for body and mind,
worn by you as an act of penance,
like a grayish invisible cloud
threatening from above.
II.
The sky brash lying in the pools--
past summer pieces underfoot.
A pen-and-ink is overhead,
over the gray and gloomy amalgam.
Trees celebrate the widowhood by swaying
the orphaned branches, dancing to the sound
of music made by wind and saxophone.
Dead leaves shine brighter than inlay--
past summer pieces underfoot.
Stepping, as always, over them. And you?
Can you step over me?
On the sly, with a chill,
badly, sadly, the doubt
punches me
in the guts.
III.
Morning. Two coffees. The empty apartment.
It’s empty, since nobody to breathe.
Suffocating.
The thinnest layer of the present “Without”
after the past eternal “With”. The ecstasy-with-you
is always here. Yours echoes mine.
It’s ours, deep deep in us, it stirs.
And every exaltation like the first.
We’ll never get accustomed to the wonder.
The salt over your skin. Unquenchable and hot,
I taste it, and the phantom of feeling
and echo of the Words are soaring around.
Alone, I gulp the air of the past.
My coffee’s getting cool, and I am late.
Confound it.
Confound everything. I recollect.
