Here I am wearing an October mask,
here I am having assumed the wind,
my words having peaked with passion,
red leaves painting cemetery grasses.
flash like a startled snake,
scales, fragments of scales...
How many have my mothers been,
even more than all the tombstones seen.
How many autumns and winters have watched
leaves of my own, loss of vigor and blood...
How many winters have invaded my blood...
How many were the joys
to which summers had given birth,
the summers watching them, at last,
return to earth.
How greatly I feared death, my desire each time
drawing the spirit back to earth,
the fear giving birth
to countless sufferings
many of which flowed and frothed,
Here I am with a bird's eye view,
senses sharpened a hundredfold more
than human senses can be.
The contours of forest,
the little pathways,
landscape of cemetery grasses,
two storks steeped in stillness
to form a beautiful blushing face
of a young woman, it seems,
reminding me of my countless
and of the dark Lady that now
summons me to finer, more fulfilling themes.
Being human was beautiful,
glorious at times,
but it was more beautiful to awake,
and there are more beautiful realms
to conjure or make.
One spirit has invited me over
to see some new paintings,
other universes, other realms,
a spirit once called William Blake.