Love always far, heart all too near
Eyes torn by light, lips charred by tears
Flowing like the seasons of time
The craven image of the girl, proud ornaments
Of cupid’s gaping gashes across
Torn by the sudden blaze of searing desire.
The verse weaver would rather walk blind
The only substance, only matter between him
And her, his scorched eyelids
— a palimpsest of the year, every year —
Watered by the seasons, lit by the days of holy
Following the rhythms of the calendar,
Unable to dissolve into the dew of the air.
Poets are blind, holding love closer than a closed eyelid.
Jealous of her distance — infinite space trapped
In the flower of blindness —
“Let me see her, only her,
Or let me see no more!”
Trapped in the words of the poet,
Sealed with his sighs, kissed by his golden laurels.