La voix est une autre vue
et une autre paire d’yeux,
une voie à se rapprocher.
Therefore, a rapture,
transport, exaltation born.
On the very tip of light
where one’s soul keeps
her steadfast watch.
Et la rime de sa rencontre
est cet appel constant,
car dans son son est l’amour.
And there, in such soundness
and beholding once more
found, love becomes a song.
Is it sunrise or some evening dusk
which begins to cast on her skin
its growing spell and diving light?
And as it spreads it gives a sign,
and the sign is there to be read—
and, in that sign, in a sign of love,
eyes laid on eyes may come alive
and fall ablaze—for they too
have dipped in blush that speaks
in tongues of roses’ deepest bloom
that sets the eyes to fountain glow
and spark and song—for he signed
this palest of all vaunted necks
with a glint that filled her through.
There is no such thing as a blank slate
as there is no such thing as a blank
canvas and as there is no such thing
as a truly blank eye unless it is dead.
For, in front of all that patent void
supposed emptiness, and utter
nothingness, and even there
right inside, a spirit stays alive,
and ever some mind is at work
which, like Penelope of old,
either weaves or tears off
its veiling shrouds—setting up
the necessity of those moments
that turn fates and time around.
