Sometimes, in the last watch of night, when the soul
is only its lonely self, I wake calling your name,
the sound piercing the the quiet dark
as a true thrown javelin pierces the heart.
In some other universe, more kind, more wise,
my cry is answered by lips warm and eager
as my own, is silenced by your love lock
embrace, till peace weaves its cocoon round.
But on this parallel, in this less benif
icent arrangement of reality, I must find
consolation only by a repeated caressing
of the mantra of your name.
June 12, 2000