Margin

There is the place for questioning:
The margin of the sky.
Will you keep me company
Along the road,
Along the track?
Will you come with me and stand
Behind the wind,
Before the sun?
Then let us gather up our skirts
With bells that jingle,
Beads that chime
Let us dress in happy scarves
And say goodnight to the dark.

Continue

Calme-toi,
ma biche, ma biche.
Be still,
my doe.

Resign.
That’s all you have to do:
lie back; endure.

The blood –
don’t let it frighten you.
There is no need.

That’s right:
your blood knows how to flow
and how to stop.

The sick --
yes, sometimes we reject.
But that will pass.

The tears –
you feel them shatter. But
you are still whole.

Calme-toi,
ma biche, ma biche.
Be still,
my doe.

Roel

So, this is how
the morning light explodes:
there is no color
like that light
when it glances
on your forearm
as you wake.

Consoling Myself Without Climbing a Tower

My tongue is too bitter
for drinking tea.
So it stays empty,
my pretty cup.

The dumplings taste wrong, too,
sour and flat.
Still, the maids pleat them,
leaving me out.

I can’t bear the guitar:
twang hurts my ears.
and books are no comfort:
can’t fix my eyes.

But now in the lamplight,
rice paper glows.
The ink still looks glossy,
true panther-black:

white sun ends at the mountains,
yellow river flows into the sea;
to survey the whole thousand miles,
climb again, one storey more.

So, somewhere, a tower,
sea, river, hills.
The view from the summit:
miles of space.