When the Deluge was over, and its current
Had to back down to former shore extents,
From hissing foam of a receding torrent,
Love quietly crawled out upon dry land
And strewed in air before the term was over,
In fact, the term was forty bags of sand...
And by the way, there are odd folk around,
Inhaling rashly all this stuff full out,
Expecting no reward, disdaining failures,
And, unsuspecting, thinking they but breathe,
They all a sudden fall into the rhythm
Of tremulous inhaling and exhaling...
Only there’s a feeling that a ship
Has to stick around too long adrift,
Prior to cognizing that "I live"
Equals to "I love" or else "I breathe".
There’ll be a lot of pilgrimage and veering:
The Realm of Love is a prodigious land;
Moreover, ever more severe ordeals
For chivalry of hers, she will demand:
She’ll rob of any rest, repose and sleep,
She’ll call for years of living far apart.
And still these folk cannot be led astray,
In fact, they even are about to pay
Whatever price; they’d peril their lifeblood
In order to keep whole and to retain
A tenuous extraordinary braid,
Extending to the hearts of the beloved.
Bracing head breeze makes the chosen drugged,
Knocks off feet and raises the deceased,
Insomuch as if you haven’t loved,
Then you haven’t lived, nor have you breathed.
Alas, a lot of those, who gushed love out,
Will never hear you, call them as you will:
Folk’s hearsay and twaddle keep their count,
On blood, that count is much too often built.
Shall candles burn to decorate the shrouds
Of victims of inimitable bliss...
Shall their voices couple, keeping time.
In dales of flowers, shall their souls abide.
Shall they inhale eternity together.
Come they across each other with a sigh
At transient junction points of space and time,
On fragile bridges and on brittle gangways.
I shall lay for lovers dales of flowers:
Sing they when awake and in a sleep.
That I breathe implies that I’m in love,
And as long as I’m in love, I live.