Like a monk, chanting, my
voice filling the library chambers, humming your incantations. My soul,
rocked by the fireplace embers… Your eyes, my illuminations.
Tirelessly measuring the
science of your beauties.
(Passionate observation, note-taking,
calculations… sweetly obsessed devotion… unfatigable dreaming…).
The long-concealed secrets,
revealed:
The final equations of your
walking, the variables of your balance, your ankles' diminute rotation
angles, your head’s exact tilt.
This monk’s proud. In the
library towers, over his workspace, he drifts into slumber.
Then, the twilight, and the lovers' souls will criss-cross by the first shades of the morning.
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