The song in the mountains
is a bittersweet lament,
an open, pure yearning.
It echoes through caves
and muffled in snow, is swept away in the wind.
The awakened, the heart simple
as an unfolding bud sings of peace,
and of loneliness?
Were our wounds scrubbed clean,
excuses ripped open to let light rush in,
sear the soul raw and translucent.
Were we but vessels with warmth
seeping from our fingers.
Or if we sank into earth,
into the mud of each other’s skin,
messy, broken yearning.
Sensuous climbs to ancient ruins,
and tumbles down into waiting arms.
If alone we spend a hundred years
digging for truth, with who,
when that joy is learnt,
can we share the news?
When the secret of how to love is found,
is there time to offer it up?
Might there be other roads to the sun?
When was I taught a heart must be
flawless before it dares to cleave?
When was the cut made between Love
and loving you?
Give me your hand, darling, the way down is steep.
Through a broken, healed binding,
may we study the galaxies
we’re formed of underneath.
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