By Yasen Vedrin
(The Vine of Engadi)
“Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,
and thy speech is comely...”
(Song of Solomon 4:3)
When hearing how your voice begins to weave
The delicate, fine lace of dreams made true,
My heart grows quiet, waiting for relief,
Not asking if wingless it can fly to you.
An unearthly dream uplifts it to the skies,
While in your lips the wind begins to spin.
You fill me up, yet more I want to rise.
I do not ask – when or where we shall begin...
Among the evening clouds within the setting light,
Your waiting voice will fall into a rest,
And feeling, like a burning fire in the night,
Will weave us in one lace upon your chest.
No comments:
Post a Comment