However sweet the air or green the sea,
At times I shut myself within my room:
Perhaps I've failed to pierce the dream of me;
Perhaps I've let my mind become my tomb.
Yet when Creation hangs upon my breath,
Apocalypse advances with my age:
No happiness can compensate for death
Nor pleasure overwhelm my bitter rage.
In my love for you there is a field of flowers
Vaster than all the galaxies of night;
Each moment holds a sea of restless hours,
Replacing time with hills of laughing light.
So may we long be given this sweet grace
And love the child within the aging face;
Render the world upon the scrim of mind,
Yet glimpse through love the mystery behind.
