A mystic, perhaps, is no more than a linguist.
He hears the sun’s soliloquy in a language of light,
and the cloud’s quiet mourning whenever it weeps;
the sea tells her stories in murmurs and roars,
and the sky regales with the secrets she keeps…
He gives up his ears, the better to hear
his hands speak of love as he caresses her cheeks.
For when he rests his head on the loved one’s chest,
her soft breathing, heart beating, gentlest sighs
are one with the mysteries of the fathomless deeps.
He hears the sun’s soliloquy in a language of light,
and the cloud’s quiet mourning whenever it weeps;
the sea tells her stories in murmurs and roars,
and the sky regales with the secrets she keeps…
He gives up his ears, the better to hear
his hands speak of love as he caresses her cheeks.
For when he rests his head on the loved one’s chest,
her soft breathing, heart beating, gentlest sighs
are one with the mysteries of the fathomless deeps.