Oh,
Do I get lost—do I willingly go mad in
the original wordless magnificent mouth,
from which unfolded to life
all the messiahs
and prophets,
in which a thousand redeamings
are enraptured,
held within a thin loin cloth,
that causes linen and cotton to shimmer.
I catch glimpses of you,
atop my rusty mare,
glancing on the mountain below.
Though I’ve been starving myself all day,
I shall gladly come down to you.
My lips ache to caress yours,
like the embrace of the dew
with the fallen breeze of the dawn,
unfolding on the pastures of my beloved land.
My beloved
is better than the rods turning red at the break of dawn
/
better than the roots my youth had discovered,
among darkened bedrooms and holy temples
/
a myriad of universes unfolded by the words of her mouth on mine,
and through her did the stars fall atop my forehead, like drops of misty rain
yearning for the loving embrace of her bones wrapped around my body disarmed
.
My good girl,
You are the plains
of the desert,
the proud palm trees
of the great Kingdom;
you are the lonely temples
of the dark forests,
and the voices of long-gone monks
in the alleyways
of sacred monastaries;
you are the elegy of the sands,
the majesty of the arctic seas,
the mistrals against the cliffs
hanging on the tallest coasts;
you are the mountains
of all Chiang Mai,
the ones my soul rests on,
like my head leans
on your shoulders;
and //
Like all the olive trees,
all the orange blossoms
and the willows of the coated plains;
the music that marches on the dry land then devours it;
the demarcations between well-defined lines;
all the ecclectic loves;
all the tall palm trees from which
hang purple then
golden dates:
I call on you
and you answer me.
—R.
© 2022 Rhéa Hleihel. All rights reserved.
Featured image: 东方美学｜碧玉朱砂 青松红门 – 小红书
