AT ETERNITY’S GATE, The Hermit And His Flower

Behold! At the idyllic face of eternal beauty
  attend—my passion measured on divine scale.
The parchment take these arrayed words,
  as I write with a mortal ink an immortal song;
that fiercely I grip my flower’s thorns,
  like planets hold to the light of their sun —
let the heaven weigh this want of mine,
  for it is both infinite and a single grain:
bring the flower out of its dormant bud.

From spheres formed by force to muse;
  their inverted masks, with a single truth
in time set—unbound extent of forms;
  severed the seed from its chaliced bloom,
and in each moment the change induced;
  creation is one made different.

The face marked as the moon never wanes
  cold as true ice, glaring like the sun;
with smile contains but sorrows and pain
  and saddened gaze wreathed with joy.
When did time split one into me and you,
  and imposed upon us his prison term?

To crimson the maple trees: their color switch
 upon autumn’s reign forfeit their temporal gain,
a silent plea performed in patience;
  O change, mighty God of death claiming
our memories, to feed thy famished flame:
  As a savored fruit with a smarting taste, 
comes a dream to these ardent orbs —
  that floating on Hadean water with ice, 
swoons a crimson blossom of pomegranate.

If temporal beauties wither or fade,
  shade of decay accenting their brief bloom,
then how, unbound from thy consuming chain,
  did these stories slip thy judgment’s room?
What tacit pardon spares the form that stands
  etched on the water, not the shifting sands?
Thus, if thy judgment fair concludes 
  of Gods born of one to one returned,
aid the voiceless one to spring anew,
  and keep her tale in thy invulnerable store.

How perplexing is this hermit tale,
  who saw the breeze murmuring charges,
bearing the flowers’ arrows attacking
  the bees in their fortress, honeycombs —
and slowly the scarlet lava seethes
 in the still waters of a frozen shore; 
and heard the aching heart with sizzling words
  bedewing his floral, dormant love.

What marks the hunt but flesh and blood?
  Yet before the prey, intending archer starves; 
who guards the bud through harsh winter’s cold, 
  then casts it down before its petals part!

Like the breasts warm, bristle to blown breath,
  the mountains’ pines, attend a tender wind.
O love, once impressed upon eternity’s gate,
  that death is far gentler than indifference;
in twilight’s hush, the flower’s lust embraced,
  by a hummingbird no longer athirst? No.

Love’s wayward seeds in soul’s prairie sown,
  pain be the calyx of their exalted blooms;
for mirror is the galley slave of its masters’ will,
  that renders the portrait of their desired view —
so the blade of fate lacerates the heart
  of one who holds upon its double edge.
As the past is fixed in the future’s sure change,
  love upon the gallows of silence hung —
reproof deals far less painful wounds
 than pride buries the truth in deluded tombs;
for kohl of decay accents all orbs of life,
 hate awaits the lover’s conscience call.

The cradle song this cadence sings,
  to the child, in rapture with fervent tongue:
From the fire we see the flowing souls
  that inhabit the earth’s and water’s forms,
and the wind that irritates the ocean's tide;
  all must hail the one who waits
in the furnace, the passionate sport,
  of loving stars to be solemn conjoined.
O beauty written in all passions’ book,
  even as love bends a secluded sage,
scorn comes unto all loving things,
  yet unassuming waters the seed of fondness,
when vanity severs its springing stem:
  that who cares for some thorny shoots,
by spring shall get a scented rose,
  and conserves its perfume, in artful fame:
remembered in death, if love’s labor lost!

As light through water viewed, my Muse
 a flower in a celestial bloom, intermediary, 
herald, liminal through realms passing
  unquestioned, between heaven and earth, 
mortals and Gods—the clarity after the storm.
  Then I concluding ask in this regard:
is the three-petaled one still full of ire?

If death is a change from state to state, 
  and change is begotten by time,
then time is the first exile that all follow.
  So I seal with magic a silent moment;
a feather balances my soul
  on equilibrium's scale of eternity.

Glimmering span where longing lies,
  upon the vault of night, stars convene;
my hands clutch the cold flame,
  mountains clasp the sky, in silent prayer —
as I consecrate my fiery passion.

What is love but pure madness,
  that brings reverent honor unto demise.
Whose mind charges with brittle stick
  to battle passion’s consuming flame,
shall tremble helpless before her wings;
  who truly loves must part from reason,
or else butcher love’s lawless law!

O transient body, O eternal spark,
  stand before the altar of fleeting hours,
with verse arranged and devotion’s grace,
  for even its course the cosmos bends
to honor the ardor of one perfect love.