Poetry

At what depth of the ocean,
From which root of the sea,
Were you born?
From which block of marble,
With what chisel
Were you carved?
With what tender feather of words,
With what slender snowflake of quill,
With what shade of colored ink
Were you written?

You are neither straight nor winding.
Unknown fruit of the ancient tree!
Unforgotten flower of midnight sun!

I do not know when you will arrive,
Or when you will leave.
I have learnt not to know you
Between your arrival and departure.
I have tutored myself not to think,
Not to think about you between those waking hours.
You often leave me without telling me,
Without telling me that you are not returning.
I can let you go just as easily as
I welcome you in the dark void of mind.
But I would rather have you with me for a good deal.
Not having you with me makes my day grey and long.

Poetry,
In what ancient cave were you created?
In what cultured city were you brought up
That you are at once within and outside
My fractional understanding?

If you try to plant your roots in my breast
I will not protest, and without protesting
I will let you do to me what spring does
To the lily of the field.
I have lived with you
Without knowing you.
I have loved you
Without understanding you.
I have kissed your honeyed words,
And dreamt your winged forms.
You are more beautiful
In that veil of opaque transparency.
So, let me love you without knowing you
And let me spell you out without speaking.