Birds receive beautiful hand signals from altars in the air.
Following the planetary fire arrowing and orbiting around the sun,
Their wings are so bright they break into your consciousness.
Unloosening the stays of your soul, your hands want to dance.
If you want to break into song, as yet, you know you cannot chant.
Has your beloved read the poem to you that frees a bird from the path
And makes it want to land and ride on your wrist for a century?
If water were to steady our eyes, it would almost make us believe,
In the aftermath, in a landscape filled with too much light
And too much love. Filling wisdom’s palace of deliverance
That open the feathers of our wounded lives?
Whatever you have been searching for: Is it not the grief of hunger?
The regret of poverty? The loneliness of old age? The fallow
And unseen temples within fields of emptiness
Don’t tell me where the cougar crouches
For this world’s blind Aesop’s and the insolence of small-minded men.
Unless that present longing that exists in you for the ocean of your soul
Makes you close your eyes once more, you’ll notice the gates
Already closed over the entire landscape of the world
And you were left outside beggared by the misdeeds
Of an indigent preacher or a mischievous scholar.
That is the world you thought you embraced with light and ultimate Forgiveness. Yet no thought exists that will finally cure the sick,
As things stand, I am not sure who it was served up wisdom’s caul
A mystery of presence gleaned and guessed as absence is
Unless presence more or less the ghost of what it was before we met? Was it you, a complete stranger who remained unguessed?