The Lyre erects its lucid frame
between the breaths that meet—
each string a path of flame
drawn taut beside her curve.
No hand compels it, yet it sings;
no wind can shake it, yet it stirs—
for every note that rises
threads the body’s furtive yarn.
The Rose will carve her scent
as the Lyre mints form afresh;
and where their currents join,
touch carries off time’s weight.
Through that fluent resonance
that speaks in vivid acumen,
wonderment and reverence fill
the floret’s ensouled point—
a temple beyond shade or sound,
like deepest night in bloom,
which only love, if eloquent,
can scale by bar and clef.
No comments:
Post a Comment