all of us know he means we mustn't, any of us, lose touch with the source, pretend it's not there, cover over the mineshaft of passion - Denise Levertov

Trying to remember old dreams. A voice. Who came in.
And meanwhile the rain, all day, all evening,
quiet steady sound. Before it grew too dark
watched the blue iris leaning under the rain,
the flame of the poppies guttered and went out.
A voice. Almost recalled. There have been times
the gods entered. Entered a room, a cave?
A long enclosure where I was, the fourth wall of it
too distant or too dark to see. The birds are silent,
no moths at the lit windows. Only a swaying rosebush
pierces the table’s reflection, raindrops gazing from it.
There have been hands laid on my shoulders.
What has been said to me,
how has my life replied?
The rain, the rain...

لقد اختار حياةً مُلقاةً عند شفير…
هو يعلم أنّه لو استطاع الرؤية
فلن يكونَ أكثر حكمة.
عالياً فوق جُرْف تعصفُ فيه الريح
يتنفّسُ
وجهاً لوجه مع الرغبة.

I moonbathed diligently, as others sunbathe.