I hold the torch deep and
find traces of your presence
here: footsteps that show
you passed this way.

This is my Janus face:
confounding who to heed:
Señora, I who call to you,
or I who harbour all
the muslin shades of dusk
in my shadow soul?

Now the wind is blowing
wild, biting the hissing fire.
The hour when waves recede
and thoughts retreat,
the slow winding hour,
when I commune with you.

Light begets light and so
come finding me, for
wavering, I may never
head any further here.