Orfeo son io, che d'Euridice i passi...
Only once, one single shoreline walking, Your sole hand speaking sought its pause in mine. Barely held — a mute creature, paw resting, Hungers not with material design; By nose, least articulate of senses, She seeks the limb and fabric of our world. Of knowing then, now, of other tenses I reweave harmonies I fear unfurled. Thought needs no language, language is not thought — Erde zu Erde, Aschen zu Aschen — Address only living voices, for nought Will be the audit of buried passion. Prolepsis then; some novel hand in mine May lead Orfeo and his fate divine.
©2001 David Clark