Abashed

 

Abashed

 

I am my sweets, at the origin of hermits

Darlings, this is what a recluse has

But soft and pretty flowers of the mind!

And faith, O’, like beauty dividing rainbows

And reality, a fore-runner of the storm 

Asking for angles of prophecy

From Angels deaf and dumb from

Embarrassments, guides left unheeded

I am my sweets, a fugitive straining with the beasts

Darlings, this is what I have become here

 

A mortal lost to a bright shower of days

Abhorring love, nourishing a humble fate

There is no blade of God here, no other’s eyes

Only these shadows that shudder

My haunted sigh, the taste for holiness

 

Sacredness lost, in the darkness of thick years

Still searching for a magical treasure

In some far-off country that is not here.