When I stand up to walk,
I do not move away from you, my associates,
I am forever approaching, forever arriving.
I walk not because I have to be a distant,
Dust on the road,
Eyes of the past, heart of the iron,
The wind that blows the leaves in mazy motions,
Or a ghost that conspires your mind
To forget me, but because I have to arrive.
Places like talking eyelashes and lips,
Like hips and arms stretch out from the labyrinth of distance,
From the womb of memory housed
At another side of the tunnel,
And they welcome me and I have to move.
Roads that are but dust and distance wait
Miserably under the moon and the sinking stars,
They wait for me across the desert of time.
I know them all well enough.
But I do not leave you alone.
The further I move, the nearer I am arriving.
I arrive at the waiting spots with the dark ink of
My dreams that wrote on your dreams,
I arrive wet with the wine in your tongues,
I arrive with the blood full of you.
These eyes and lips that call me:
I shall not be with them too, nor will they.
We have to arrive.
Like empty distance, like space you shall
Wait like these spots somewhere.
And I shall walk toward you.
And the first step I walk further from you is one
Step nearer I shall have walked.
I am forever approaching
The silence has sustained too long,
Too long this silence,
And I haven’t heard a merry song
Of a post-winter resilience.
I was born a man long ago
When trees were still green
And jasmines were aglow
In the zephyr of spring.
These filled the ears of mine
In the sunny hills and darkling climes
Nightingales came to dine—
And dance to nocturnal rhymes—
In those sylvan foothills,
Where slow Summer’s
Approaching footstep fills
The awaken cuckoo’s numbers.
But the songs are gone
And the tantalizing aroma of wild flowers
In the tranquil bowers
Are now away blown.
O, my sweet South
Where larkspurs and honeysuckles
Dance like children
Of summer with muddy buckles.
O, my south, my Eden,
My young hungry mouth
Whose bountiful hands of gold
With care did feed.
But where have gone the old,
Old fields filled with strawberry
That with her darling little seed
Came to meet us in February?
I love sitting beside you when
You start snuggling into the fabrics of dream,
And look in your eyes still.
The closing magic windows of the shrine
Your soul dwells fold like
Spaces between petals of China rose.
Like a room whose light are put
Out slowly, your face is silent.
And do you know at least the half
Of what you look like
When your eyes are closed, hair
Finely lying on the pillow,
And a man watching you sleep?
What stars flicker in the
Still universe of your closed eyes, my sleeping lady?
What sweet dreams of
Delight and sweet love
Surge like waves in the oceans of your womanhood?
Like the gentle breeze of autumn,
Laden with lusty ripeness,
Your sweet breathe moves your chest
Low and high:
Oh angel! What unknown sweetness
Like nectar lay still in your still orbs?