What glory could settle the breeze?
In the days and nights that my mouth goes dry,
what road upon which an army marches does suffer a well to be dug,
and what cities fall that could bring a cup to my lips?
Words like yours incite no war cries to rally,
but they bring the rain when you call upon the clouds to drift.
And does my hunger make me foolish? Does my imagination run
Because it has never felt the weight of a wise thought?
Am I simple? Do my curiosities reveal my ignorance? Do I ask too
much, or too often?
What does a love letter to a poet make the man with the pen desire?
Is it the laughter of a budding affection? Or the pity that brings a first
Perhaps he offers up the voice in his soul
hoping that it will be cannibalized by a tongue that tastes nothing
in the murmuring recitation of clumsier words.
I feel I should know.
But if I must be clumsy, and simple, and ignorant, too much or too
I can only wish for my clambering gait to still be swift enough
to catch you as you amble
from thought to thought.
Adorations for Bragi, the Norse god who was the First Maker of Poetry.
— The End —