Sunday, May 27, 2012

On Borrowed Time

On Borrowed Time

I slept in a labyrinth
made of milk and honey

until by chance, you woke
and wore me down with your

hands.  I was a boy prisoner
among your changing walls.

Time, insinuating itself on
your body, a cloud of dust.

Thus my uncultured grief
is new now.

New, as if I were the first man
that fell with his love from paradise,

as when I saw such a sky already conquered
by shadows aging my beloved's body.

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