“Nothing I can sing
will bring you back.
Not the songs of a hundred horses running
until they become wind.
Not the personal song of the rain
who makes love to the earth.”
“But we: we vanish in our feelings. Oh, we breathe
ourselves out, and out; our smell dissolves
from ember to ember. It’s true, someone may tell us:
‘You’re in my blood, this room, Spring floods
with you …’ What good is it? He can’t hold us.
We vanish with him and around him. And the beautiful,
oh, who can hold them back? Some look is always rising
in their faces, and falling. Like dew on new grass,
like heat from a steaming dish, everything we are rises
away from us. O smile, where are you going?
O upturned look: new, warm, the heart’s receding wave—
it hurts me, but that’s what we are. Does the cosmic
space we dissolve into taste of us, then? Do angels
really absorb only what poured out of them,
or sometimes, as if by mistake, is there a trace
of us, too?”