You
by
Arturo Vásquez
You are the sonnet
That the morning utters:
Silent, singing,
The incessant rustling
Of birds in the branches.
You are the song
That lifts up my feet,
Period of longing,
Period of sighs-
Sweet blade that
Plunges into memory
And cuts away all
That bends in sorrow.
You are the hue of
The sky in spring-
The light that glides off
The streams that
Gallop over stones.
You are the muse,
The recitation,
The singer,
And the tear-
All of this you consume
In your gentle eye-
And I fade away,
Lost and lifted up
In morning's prize.
by
Arturo Vásquez
You are the sonnet
That the morning utters:
Silent, singing,
The incessant rustling
Of birds in the branches.
You are the song
That lifts up my feet,
Period of longing,
Period of sighs-
Sweet blade that
Plunges into memory
And cuts away all
That bends in sorrow.
You are the hue of
The sky in spring-
The light that glides off
The streams that
Gallop over stones.
You are the muse,
The recitation,
The singer,
And the tear-
All of this you consume
In your gentle eye-
And I fade away,
Lost and lifted up
In morning's prize.
3 Comments:
Dear readers,
I cannot write anymore. Someone has seized all of the forces of my being. I cannot write. I can only sing. I'm sorry.
Hopefully this will be ameliorated soon.
Sincerly,
Arturo Vasquez
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