Like the Inner Wall of a House
Like the inner wall of a house
that after wars and destruction becomes
an outer one--
that's how I found myself suddenly,
too soon in life. I've almost forgotten what it means
to be inside. It no longer hurts;
I no longer love. Far or near--
they're both very far from me,
equally far.
I'd never imagined what happens to colors,
The same as with human beings: a bright blue drowses
inside the memory of dark blue and night,
a paleness sighs
out of a crimson dream. A breeze
carries odors from far away
but itself has no odor. The leaves of the squill die
long before its white flower,
which never knows
the greenness of spring and dark love.
I lift up my eyes to the hills. Now I understand
what it means to lift up the eyes, what a heavy burden
it is. But these violent longings, this pain of
never-again-to-be-inside.
Created by
guccipiggy
Last modified
2005-03-17 09:04 PM
VI.
If men at forty will be painting lakes
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,
The basic slate, the universal hue.
There is a substance in us that prevails.
But in our amours amorists discern
Such fluctuations that their scrivening
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink
Into the compass and curriculum
Of introspective exiles, lecturing.
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.