Monday 1 June 2015


Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or whichIi cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
thoughI I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously )her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

E.E. Cummings



Art credit: Precious Life by Christian Schloe

https://www.facebook.com/ChristianSchloeDigitalArt?fref=ts

No comments:

Post a Comment