I bringeth light to your eyes,
I am the dawn and the sun has come and gone.
I bringeth day to your night:
Though the sky is dark and looming.
I am the sound in that thunder,
That strikes in brooding dreams.
That leave you waking and wanting me.
I am the flower in the winter,
that hot house, blossoms to your touch.
That blossoming is the waiting,
that would in force of time come to seed
need that ancient king demands,
and want, that ancient queen commands,
that all our supple youth be spent,
on this our living rent.
The strands woven into each cell
have only drives, which weigh and tell
tell upon us,
like tolling of the bells.
I remember the old city,
it's cobble walks,
it's church built spires,
martyr's names upon the streets.
blessed to you, they,
one and all.
A strange mythology I thought that time,
to raise to holy sacrament,
the act, to fling away the gift of life.
But now I feel it falling,
my bell has tolled, and I come
crawling to you
my curves do desire to ring,
in vibration that you have wrung from them,
slapping them with force that shocks.
The whip of flesh on flesh that furrows earth,
and awakens rush of inner waters.
I stood, that day, on cobble street,
and felt the vibration of the tides.
Within that old religion contained,
the writhes and torments I sought from you.
Then crossed us a gale of flowers,
and torrent of rice, tossed
upon the white cascades of satin roses,
that brought a bride, unblushing,
from the dark recess of sacristy and nave,
and out into the world.
So bring forth we,
from my sacristy and nave,
another face that is the sun and moon to us
around which our world will from then revolve.
I bringeth light to you, but I am not the light,
I am the sun to you, but I am not your sun.
I flowered at your touch,
but the bright blossom is yet,