All you men...
What lies in your fists?
In your eyes,
A man of forty. Forty years the child.
His eyes don't see me but his mother.
His past. And like a child he wanders
Clean through the tunnels of his time.
A Translation of Mother Theresa’s 'Jeta'
By the polite sea I rest,
Engaging in attention
And words. By the sea
I lay, by the sea I pray,
Your whisper cannot ride the louder wind...
Your frown becomes the night,
The owl, high and hidden delights in song
And does not meet your broken eyes.
I have planned and dreamt of this trophy of gold,
The halo of silver, around in which it molds.
I have cradles this idea and nursed it to true plan,
I have fed it seeds of confidence, O this is so grand!
They blame you for the celebrated madness-
For the tearing open of beasts' throats,
Releasing demons into the twilight waves of lull.
When mores bind this flesh and spirit
Into one man of mortal pride and truth,
When two drops of tranquil waters
Fill his sight's hollows with tranquil views.
I dig for nothing tonight.
No stars. I cannot find
The constant moon.
I could write about the moon
I wish to bend your smiles so as better
To ease my truth.
I had lost the form of loving
When you last battled my love with yours.