When the Sun rises from the purple language
of night and begins to color the sky red
and orange, my love sighs in the middle of
a brief dream that doesn't make any sense.
When the flowers open as the spring begins,
their yellows, purples, whites, all take in
the light of the governor of the spheres
who every day is upon tasks and in control,
my love sings a song that recalls the voice
of books and scriptures that a foreign hand
has devised with the use of classical figures.
But she is more than rising orbs of light
or opening fragrant petals, I can't apprehend
her in these mere illusions I perceive.
No comments:
Post a Comment