A Cento

The minute hand of the clock moves slowly.
The moonlight streams into the window,
there is not a whisper on the shore
dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
I am drawn to its light.

I shall not lie easy
but I cannot find my way
the breeze laughing lightly,
the moon glittering above the hill
magnificent with existence
I meet my shadow in the summer night
my haltering footsteps reflecting in the ocean’s watery mirror
the water understands

a man goes far to find out what he is
and look in the face of whatever
the whatever that’s waiting
in dreams of his waking life

disintegrated
I foresaw your departure
I used to tell you my dreams
who are you anyway?
who cares.
when your beauty breaks
blind fists of nothing batter my soul
and I realize:
in our morale must lie our strength
understanding your weakness, I wept.

I wept here
where the sun came up.

the minute hand of the clock moves slowly
and the world was calm.

The days are beautiful.