Posts Tagged ‘drinking bouts’

My gipsy soul, curb your horse,
there is nowhere to go from here.
Evening, a wind-winged bird,
settles heavy: now is the moment
when travellers fail.

Bend down, look in my face
at the old maps traced in my eyes,
at those old roads sprinkled with stars,
no more long slow trails
of caravans camped by the rivers,
no hot summer nights
of nomadic drinking-bouts.

Here is the night’s roof, the beauty
of creation opening out,
we have come to the end of the days
of free proud friendship,
when we slept beneath a thousand skies,
made love and multiplied.

What is this longing, it consumed us
in half-open rooms where candles melted away?
Where are we, what time is it?
Whose work this dark street,
this snowwhite shroud, this lost time
that suddenly died?

If I shoot an arrow and bring down night
luminous days will kneel at my feet,
my heart will open with the newly-washed wounds
in your naked breasts,
with the roar in the topmost branch of the tree.

My gipsy soul, curb your horse,
we’ve come to the end of the road.