And lives go on until they wither
I talk of lives that gave themselves
to light, serene love, lives which
go down like babbling brooks
hiding in them this light
the sky reflects into the rivers
and the sun flows in it.
I speak of lives that gave themselves to light
about the little lives that hang
like rubies from the lips of women
like offerings that hang from
church icons, silver hearts
exquisitely humble, yet in love
with the lips of a woman.
I speak of little lives that hang.
The unsuspicious lives
that silently follow
darkened, foreign, saddened steps
image of a delicate woman
who hasn’t sensed them following
and who will lean onto the earth
and vanish silently: the unsuspicious lives
that vaguely and doubtfully pass
like stars of the morning twilight
in the thought of a morning soul
that hasn’t seen its life
withering slowly just as it ran
joyously and unfettered passing.
Lives that doubtfully and vaguely have passed.