Innocent mother,
Like a tree you brought me forth,
When you were praying for pardon
                                                   on your knees,
When unquenched fires were burning you
And the strands of life bound you
                                                    more tightly.

I was neither for you
                                         peace,
Nor the olive bough,
Nor against pain --
Sweet unbinding.
I did not understand how to bring wise answers,
Nails I nailed
                           into your palms, on the cross.

Blameless mother,
Passing mother,
Pallid light,
The thought pains me badly
And time does not give me relief.

Flavia Cosma from *Wormwood Wine

"When does a person die" a person asked another,
"When they stop breathing of course" added the other.
But I knew better.

You don't die when you stop breathing or break the "physical tether"- as it were.
No.
You die when you're no longer able to cope,
utterly, utterly lost - in the absence of hope.

In any case, with pains, I'll rise again
No one can soar downwards
I will handle curb of life
But I wish you were near me then,
Not beneath like a surpassed one

We can soar together, believe me
If you restore your reliance
Maybe not merely eye-to-eye
Maybe not merely hand in hand
It can be spirit to spirit
And can also be trust in trust

I want you to be soared with me
With your thoughts and deep choices
To higher than me like a wren *
I want you not like a talisman
I want you alive and like The Genius *  

It is possible where poets come from
And where philosophers inhabit
Where high humane dimensions lie
Dimensions of fathomless friendship

We can soar together, believe me
If you restore your reliance
Maybe not merely eye-to-eye
Maybe not merely hand in hand
It can be spirit to spirit
And can also be trust in trust

The lady in red,
brightly sparkling,
Sharing her warmth
but not flaming

Gave a laughing pose
and left quickly.
A pleasant rose,
also prickly.

Better just to look
to be admired.
Will keep you away
in a distance wired.

Rules are very odd,
sometimes very strict.
She is a flower
meant not to be picked.