Nine forty-seven
On holy Saturday night.
My soul lost its heart.
A dangerous love
Covered us until yesterday.
Now you are gone.
You met my midnight
And made a sun of mercies
Burn the horizon.
You feared not to walk
With the wind on the water
And bid me to sail.
Friends who see despond
Don't know what I understand:
They cannot touch me,
For only you could!
In your hold would I be still,
Not still by myself.
I dreamed of your flesh
And dreamed that I tasted it,
Warmly in my mouth,
Kissing my own god,
But awoke to the gray day,
Kissing my own ghost.
I am lonely, lonely,
Longing for you
On holy Saturday night.
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4 comments:
Now that's impressive.
Fortunately Sunday morning Mass follows these Saturday nights.
The Sunday morning I am looking for, and for which all people yearn in their own way, surely is more glorious than can be apprehended even in the mysteries celebrated at Eucharist.
Fortunately a week is seven days.
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