There is an emptiness, along with the movement of unnamed shadows. But I see the moon flowing, and I have your love, loyalty and tenderness. Leaving the sky, the mountains and the oceans perfect. Against the coldness of the others.
I looked out of my window, and saw the clouds trying to release the rain. A fabric of words ready to fall. It has become my habit, to keep living. So, I turned away – and incense in hand, the day resumed. With only the silence able to speak.
An old moment taken from the lake. Your cry echoes through the dark hills. Some say there is no death. Just cloudless skies, and spring beneath the cherry blossoms.
Drifting like white clouds, I walk the path in an old temple. The dust, the sunshine, the river breeze – fragile over life. In an empty space, I sit down to write some words. The voice of a lingering love.
Over the eastern hills, a glow that adorns the morning sun. A beauty spilling from the trees. Against convention and reason, the flesh was yearning on. And in that moment a love was born. A life no longer wondering, about yes or no.
Sea’s sound in the breeze, aroused my senses. A windowsill love song, where blue meets jade vista. I saw the wild waves crash ashore, holding the shape of our nights together. Everything is open ahead of me. And our days begin together, with the soft touch of your breath, caught inside me.
Swarms of dragonflies hanging on. I decided, not to sell my soul cheaply. The chair is uncomfortable, but you are just a short line of silk away. And the duties are piling up, but my words are scented with your plum-rain kisses. Stepping on thin ice, you whisper to me – “In the sea of love, waves always move”. The shadow of silence was lifted, and there was time to reach that living body, once again.
How you got into my thoughts, nobody knew. The nervous quiver of the first kiss. The port for which we longed, still playing the old love songs. And a world in which we both fit, are all possibilities. You said, I write like Neruda. I say, I write against those dismal years, those days before we met. And your shifting body, imaged in my fingertips.
A Wandering Poet 