Claire De Lune - Poem by D. Harris
And then at last I set about to work at it. My hands scoring its rough surface and delving into the heart of the thing to find what I sought; to create what I would; to build a thing of wonder and beauty. I slept not for days on end and when finally my work was finished I looked upon it and wondered how I had done it. Looking into the heart of light, the silence (these words I stole from a man greater than myself as I gazed upon my labor of love and whispered them softly; so softly for I must be dreadfully careful not to disturb the rest of that thing which I had created; not to mar its beauty) .
How long I stared at my creation I know not for I only stared until my eyes ceased to see and, as phantom memories floated up through the cracks in the floor and that thing which I had made began to fade into the pale darkness of the room in which I had made it, I wept, though I knew that this would only bring about the end more quickly.
I wept for the loss of that thing which I had created and as I wept I thought on all that it had once been made from: marble pillars, crystal glasses, blazing fires, drowsing waters, yellowing pages from books written long ago and crumbling words from tales told long ago. All these things and more I remembered as I looked at the wreckage of what I had once made, that which no man yet had made; nor would any man see it or believe in its truth for even as I had first thought of fetching a man - perhaps Monsiegneur Khayyam or my dear friend Cacciato or or even a casual acquaintance, someone Innocent or Pious - even as I first thought of fetching one of them, that thing that I had made began to fade quietly into the room in which I had made it, and, soon, soon nothing was left of it but a memory and a shadow of a guess at what it had been that lay across the floors and walls of the temple I had built it in.
At last I had set about to work at it. I had made a thing of beauty, a thing which no man has yet made, and as the failing light of the dawn came through the stained, glass windows, I thought one final time of what I had done and then laid it to rest.
'I have finished it' I thought to myself, as the dawn quietly left us. My labor of love, which had once sprawled from wall to wall of the room I know stood in was gone and as I looked about the room I remembered fondly where it had been and what it had not looked like.
I remember even now fondly that which I have done which no other man has or will. I remember fondly that which my hands did.
These hands; my hands.
The only hands yet to create nothing out of something.
Comments about Claire De Lune by D. Harris
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You