Stranger to your mysteries

Stranger to your mysteries long poem

It so happens.

these days, I come to you with forgotten sails,

with abandoned poems,

with a heart worn away by the salt of this world.

It so happens that I arrive at your door empty-handed.

I have nothing to offer you,

no stories nor songs gathered from strange lands,

no minerals nor anemones discovered in the depths of my heart.

I have nothing to offer you,

except a word for your word.

a sword for your sword.

It so happens.

These days I come, but as a mirror

that only reflects your darkness.

I come, but as a maze that traps all your kisses.

My love, it so happens that I come to you

as a stranger to your mysteries.

I do not know from where.

From the rooftops

of some proud buildings

or from the dark belly of some alleys,

or from certain crowded markets

where fishes hang in hooks

or from somewhere inside ourselves,

someone called out to us

and we had to answer.

As all lovers, we had to emerge from our night

and face the day.

But, how does one love without the moon?

How does one live without kisses?

How does one protect oneself

against the onslaught of this world?

Where does one store away

one’s most precious words,

words tender as the ears of children,

words that we made our own,

by knocking them against our hearts,

shaping it with our sweet silences?

Where does one store away

one’s most precious words

so that they are not drowned

by the horns of the world?

Where does one preserve

one’s most intimate moments,

moments, vulnerable as rafts upon seas,

moments that could carry us to the distant shores

in our own hearts?

Where does one preserve

one’s most intimate moments,

so that they are not crushed

among the wheels of the day?

My love, I do not know.

I do not know how to go away and return,

how to forget and remember,

how to be lost and found, all at once.

So, I go about my life, clumsily,

knocking and falling,

breaking down our love’s

invisible architectures,

pitting myself against you,

till one day, I no longer know,

how to listen to the sea.

Till one day, I no longer know,

how to speak to the moon.

Till one day, I no longer know,

how to love you.

So I ask you.

Those who scatter their hearts everywhere,

where do they gather them?

So I ask you.

Those who gather more wounds every day,

where do they heal them?

So I ask you.

*

If we only we could go back,

if only we could hold our hands

and begin at the beginning,

if only we could once again be fragile and free,

as the grass waving in the wind.

Or bitten by butterflies,

if we could roam from dream to dream,

to ask nothing more than a song

that could put us to sleep,

to seek nothing more than a river,

that could carry us away

from the horns of this world,

from the wheels of the day.

My love, still among all things,

I only long to hear your laughter

roll as the stream unfastened,

I only long to see you twirl and twirl

to your inner music.

Still among all things,

I long to look into your eyes

and find myself.

Still among all things,

I long to rest my head upon your breasts

and enter a sleep that has no arising.

But, alone, by ourselves,

we are no longer certain.

We wonder if butterflies have teeth,

if the river is a boat,

do songs have hands that embrace us as we lay asleep?

Even so, our tears that fall on this earth,

grow up into flowers and birds.

For, all things long to blossom.

all things wish to fly.

In the end,

all things return to the sand,

so that in its hand,

they can become other things.

Life goes on,

and love.

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Balaji Gopalan

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I owe all of my poetry to the influence of Pablo Neruda. Reading him 10 years ago on the beaches of Goa, gave me the permission to be who I am and write what I feel. My poetry has never been the same after that. All that I write is an offering to Neruda.
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Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Nice soliloquy of longing and sadness.

wpDiscuz

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