Song of Love


I am the lover's eyes, and the spirit's
Wine, and the heart's nourishment.
I am a rose. My heart opens at dawn and
The virgin kisses me and places me
Upon her breast.


I am the house of true fortune, and the
Origin of pleasure, and the beginning
Of peace and tranquility. I am the gentle
Smile upon his lips of beauty. When youth
Overtakes me he forgets his toil, and his
Whole life becomes reality of sweet dreams.


I am the poet's elation,
And the artist's revelation,
And the musician's inspiration.


I am a sacred shrine in the heart of a
Child, adored by a merciful mother.


I appear to a heart's cry; I shun a demand;
My fullness pursues the heart's desire;
It shuns the empty claim of the voice.


I appeared to Adam through Eve
And exile was his lot;
Yet I revealed myself to Solomon, and
He drew wisdom from my presence.


I smiled at Helena and she destroyed Tarwada;
Yet I crowned Cleopatra and peace dominated
The Valley of the Nile.


I am like the ages -- building today
And destroying tomorrow;
I am like a god, who creates and ruins;
I am sweeter than a violet's sigh;
I am more violent than a raging tempest.


Gifts alone do not entice me;
Parting does not discourage me;
Poverty does not chase me;
Jealousy does not prove my awareness;
Madness does not evidence my presence.


Oh seekers, I am Truth, beseeching Truth;
And your Truth in seeking and receiving
And protecting me shall determine my
Behavior.


- by Khalil Gibran -

Whether we write or speak or do but look

We are ever unapparent. What we are

Cannot be transfused into word or book,

Our soul from us is infinitely far.

However much we give our thoughts the will

To be our soul and gesture it abroad,

Our hearts are incommunicable still.

In what we show ourselves we are ignored.

The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged

By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.

Unto our very selves we are abridged

When we would utter to our thought our being.

We are our dreams of ourselves souls by gleams,

And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.



FERNANDO PESSOA (1888-1935)

Never let me go

Never let me go, says the piano,

then the five syllables are repeated

a little lower, maybe more sadly,

or with more acceptance that this plaint

is endless, fruitless, but it is the plaint

of love forever, whatever else changes,

and the five notes always sound different

the way the lover constantly is finding

new ways to ask what can't be answered.

The piano takes a break to think it over

all around the keyboard, as if it is free

to take a walk, ...