In subterranean diaries, passing passion play of Nin.
Unamuno tears your being, leaves the heart raw and longing.
Garcia Lorca makes immortal the unattainable Dali.
"I love, I long, I love," they all said.

Neruda pierced the curtain of the shivering lonely stars.
Ripped apart the emptiness borne by wind, and sky and sea,
and a disgarded dress, lying in the corner, and a wave, a wave.
"I love! I love to mourn the passing of my love."

These are the seekers; poets of essence and of night, and
we, incarnate, earthbound, living in the half-light.
Weep for the loss of heaven; for the soul,
once made precious, reflecting Divine light, is now
discontent with the paler lumination in the eyes of a lover.

As every mystic and poet through the ages discovered
it was not unrequited love or lover lost, but the desire
for the ephemeral which is the great tragedy of the human heart. 
Beyond the natal, the growing old and the dying,
is Love itself, the most ancient of travelers.

And we dance on the peripheries,
and hide from it's immensity,
as it sometimes feels safer to bear its loss
than to break our hearts from joy.

Linda Lyng
Copyright ©2002 Linda Lyng

 

Border Poets