Silences
We see ourselves in others, during silences,
And words are vague images,
Echoes of intangible feelings
Weak metaphors, like stars
Born in your eyes, symbols of facts
Indefinable: subtleties,
Discreet gestures we know by heart
Symptoms of emotions and of movements
Of the soul, crying out from dead and rushed
Days that mock –warning
Exchanges at dusk –when we are at the
Midpoint of the path of confusion
Of sweet, disenchanting delights
That make us more troubled and unyielding
And of spilled tears over misfortunes,
Until we see ourselves in the impassive faces
Of sculptures
And I found behind the windows
In the cross-light of the museum
Built on pre-roman megaliths, the sea
The blue splendor of winter
Breezes, the midday sun kissing
The square and the air of resigned
Sadness in your darkened glance,
Slipping slowly by shop-windows,
Observing buckles, lamps, dice…
Reflected in the glass’ chill.
Douglas Pate
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