Beneath the burning eastern sky
The Cross was raised at morn:
The widowed Church to weep stood by,
The world, to hate and scorn.
Now, journeying westward, evermore
We know the lonely Spouse
By the dear mark her Saviour bore
Traced on her patient brows.
This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like
the fond arms of love.
This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of
When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in
your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with
My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will
transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.
It will be like the faithful star overhead when dark night is
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.
This comes after silence. Was it something I said
But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam's twin is blood.
I had a dream last night, a lovely dream
in which you came to me on a moonbeam.
You were radiant and gleaming with light
and looked really splendid shining so bright.
Together we rose to the realms above
to that boudoir of romantic love
and engaged ourselves wonderful delight
fulfilling our pleasures throughout the night.
At the time when I wanted to become a poet
The sun tempted me to leaf through the storm
And the frost scorched my every flower
I waited for the wounds to heal
I waited a long time
To leaf through the dry branches again
To be the herald flower of the spring
Then when I wanted to be a poet
If it was a dream .. from my spate fingers ,
I would draw you a rose
And on my eyeball I would plant you a longing smile
You would be a home , reduce the evening in a star
And sun never admits defeat,
against legions of the rain
If it was a dream
I would plant your land with thousand laughs
To raise basil and roses on your face
When we dream ..the life settles in its cradle
At the edge of the water
We light a lantern for two
Watch it rise through the night sky
To make friends with all the stars
That's what they call magic
Took a ride through the wild wood
Blind for a while, we got lost
Then emerged after lifetimes
In a land that time forgot
The delicious taste of love makes you feel miserable
The joy of love denies the existing reality
The delicious and savoury love adds thirst and the pleasure of tasting worldly flavours
The motivation of love is reaching out to dreams and unravelling hope and material desires
Suffering love draws sorrow meeting
Sad love blocks distance and time
The manipulation of love reflects daydreams and obscures togetherness
The hopelessness of love destroys the relationship and the longevity of a couple
with different desires