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FOR ~ 'K'.
Flash of thought fuelled,
Fraught with inspiration,
Taught by heart to sing and soul,
To understand: I miss your holy hands.
Thoughts turn to dross in absence,
Thicker than a mist,
Lips cannot speak for dry of absent kiss,
Arms do not fold back nor incline;
The mind is webbed,
The flesh is vacant of caress,
The fingers, cold with the memory of impress.
If I could scent your hair, once more,
And tune me to your walk,
Could taste the light and dark of you again,
And talk to the laughter of your eyes,
And twine the tall silk smooth of you about my brow,
Like rainspill on the bough.
I need no longer muse myself,
To sleep and wake to day,
And say your name and see your face,
And still find you away...
Written by Roger of Lunel.
During the 1st Crusade, 1099.
WEARY with toil, I haste me to my bed
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d:
For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and your old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself no quiet can I find.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet no: 27.
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Current Amount in My Cashbox:
2,568 strti.
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