Sunday, July 31, 2011
Grey-headed whores are virgin again.
Out of the past dream brings long-buried choices,
All in a moment snaps the tenfold chain
That life took years in forging. There the stain
Of oldest sins—how do the good words go?—
Though they were scarlet, shall be white as snow.
C.S. LEWIS, Narrative Poems
In his dream he was driving
in a column of verses.
Running neatly in parallel
Trying not to be swept away
by heavy curls
or the smell of tamarinds
from a distant.
Or the longing
that makes the flowers bloom
and the valleys more deep
out of season.
No one to talk to the road’s end—
he lost the last battle with himself.
Utterly trapped and without hope
he wished he was dead.
As a dream when one awakes,
So, Lord, when You awake,
You shall despise their image.