Iron plains, and then sea-stretch to new desert lands—grief’s growth.
This is the mercy of the Beloved to heal our wrath.
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Those whom we love now soon we will have to be leaving;
Why then let their changing moods be a cause for grieving?
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The beauty we see around us is a reflection
Of our Beloved’s face—singing that perfection.
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Because you are the way as well as the goal, we rejoice;
Because you are the song, in our hearts is always your voice.
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Love delights in green places, in the songs of birds and fountains;
But the lover is led across sandy deserts and stone mountains.
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Love is lovely and lowly: it runs from high places
As swiftly as summer rain down a mountainside races.
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The dark still sea of night breaks into motion and its foam
Submerges the islands of stars. We are far from home.
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The days wash over one another like waves towards a beach,
And time runs towards a meeting that we will never reach.
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I wish that young swagman Rimbaud could have met this divine Juggler
Who spins the world of our hopes on the tip of his little finger.
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