unbeing

Lucian Blaga is silent as a swan
In his land
the snow of being stands for words.
His soul is on a quest,
a silent, centuries-long quest,
since forever
and until the last boundary mark.
It seeks that water where the rainbow drinks
It seeks that water
from which the rainbow drinks
its beauty, its unbeing.

I sit alone, now. Dreaming much, so that by mid-morning I am nowhere. And you are nowhere too. I stand by the window with my back to the door, learning of other directions. Learning off by heart. Like my silver watch kept safely in a velvet pouch, in a dark cupboard, keeping time silently.

und seh meiner Hand zu,
wie sie den einen
einzigen
Kreis zieht

Time falls all around, like golden pollen. Melts all around her. Time's in her pocket, ticking loud on a stalled hand, and time will tell, even as she wounds. But for now he stands alone, with all the time in the world, like a watch counting the hours, stuck on that first moment when he saw her, by the first light, the light before the darkness of their being.