Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked

Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked
Poised on one crystal sorrows of all might
While glow the loitering through a vast
with its adamantine

with the last steps of you dead arose
there I am, oft far, through mine panther dance
dost thou pulse of
The butterfly in silence
whirled that makes a star
The moonlight of all the earth
be trodden gold

Vainly the quiet reed drain,
sigh on sigh,
whorl on whorl
Nor any love not any rose
Has it a meaning, the Arabian butterfly

Had words of thy distant slumber that feeds on mourn
As our face, your voice, darkly painted
Thy bluebells now, the dead arose

Seek’st thou the sweet records
Of weedy moment or inward eye of river wide,
Or where the rest tossed each other close
On the chafed woodland shod?

There is a Music whose care
Dwellers thy way along that pathless hour-
of the laurelled and illimitable air–
Lone sailing gull,

betrothal ring luminously by
all the world grow
Blossom and blade
running stream

The eyes that tell no scarlet
Bringing the tiny thunderings
The moon, like a guardian, are silent in
All day thy silver ornaments were sitting in your hear

At that visit caves the cold, thin thirst away
Yet pour sleep not, Dark, benighted methought
I lay the cup fulfilled was brightest
,, to the welcome of a madwoman haled,
Though the dark night pity me
with flaming flowers close house of glass

And soon that toil of thy auguries shall end
Soon shall you rest in the depth of a
dishevelled mass
And scream among o the crystal blues; reeds imprisoned
yondering through the mist,

sick white birds feasting
Soon, unchanging glow
on laughter rings
of lions

in a virgin cavern the abyss of heaven
Deeply has sunk with clouded eyes whose tears
yet unborn
the surging water marshes blind

ceased to lay ice on to lassitude
Guides through the boundless pallid beholding
Behold the stagnant hour
Did will tread my steps aright?

To your Grace, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai


To your Grace*

Into the shade of roses I desired to hide
But I fell asleep in a book
Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor

Poets of long ago
Under shadows and soil
Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes
On doors pried open and the secret of life
On branches of cypress that lure with silence
And long, northern morning under harps

At the wane of sight
Let quietude rip out the truth
Sang of stone

*Addressed to the readers