When winter's heart is speared, hours are spared
to carry pastel skin far, and I, far,
only to depart. Fallow limbs follow
yearning's gravity, sink in porphyry.
Slender bloom gifts that noble radiance,
disappearing before touching my lips.
I am left to taste most prosperous chains;
stasis bursts forth heretical distance.
Imprisoned image on occulted walls
comes and goes through prophesied ports and roads
whose provenance I dream. Far, far away
you seem; outremer veiled, vanishing.
For the love of conviction, joy appears
near, by exegesis of what you see,
say. Speak with delight, undress charms between
until I awake for the thousandth time.
Under plague's watchful gaze, heat befalls me
only to curse once, twice. Only to be
traveling far, far past pen, ink, be drunk,
be stricken by blushing, blustery rose.
All law crumbles but that which makes brittle
the great harper's lament. Wailing stones fall,
torn by gardens planted with your blessing,
ancient as palatial song, blissful sleep.
Covetous of unmapped harmonies, depths,
I strive for the far, far side of glass. You,
ab astra, compass across divisions,
declare that our repentance melt away.
*a stripped-apart, translated, mutated and poorly reassembled Lanquand li jorn son lonc en mai by Jaufré Rudel (fl. 12th c.).