Those ancient temples
were deep and silent wells—
even if called by other names—
from which one could ladle
what, in haste, we pass by.
And yet that silence speaks;
it tells who we were
and who we truly are—
and for a devout bow
that stays the flow of time,
one might even hear
what a drop of light
does to the god inside:
a Liu’s lustrous pearl
formed round a speck of dust.
Pines and mountains breathe,
and the air at the doorsill
ripples in a breeze—
curve filling arc,
emptiness growing resonant.
And so love in beauty, too,
draws us back and closer
into a sight
of our once true faces,
cleansed in celestial radiance.
But what of it now—
when, confused to death,
we no longer listen
with our own feet
to the pulse of all those stars
arrayed around us?
Just as women forgot, or unlearned,
that with a gesture—
architecturally precise—
they could win and keep
a poet’s lifelong heart.
Has this happened because
there are scarcely any such poets left?
Or because love itself has ceased—
by ceasing
the weighing of the hearts?
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