A Song to the Beloved

I seek someone, but who is she?
Or rather, who is She?

In the faces that go by, not a one --
only inklings.

Then other times,
when my heart and my eyes are clear,
I stop, to dream unholy dreams.

And in such a dream
my lover speaks to me:
she makes the wind to be her voice.

Her eyes, like stars in the night sky,
her hair a black moonlight
that brushes my cheeks.

For she is that sky,
that pale and somber moon.
I call out to her in yearning pleas
and through my open door she comes.