Poetry

My love is like the crescent moons of Arab calligraphy,
Like a language that sand erases.

She is also like the little word houses of China
Shining on their bamboo stilts
As the green rice flashes to the east.

Spanish is for the blood rose of her mouth,
French for the azure of her gaze,
Russian for her madness and passion.

Latin is for the mirror of her beauty.
Ancient Greek is our Olympus,
Our long climb to a mythical sublime.

If I spoke Aramaic I could tell you
Of the myrrh and frankincense of her flesh.

Sanskrit is for the mystic knowledge of her eyes,
Hieroglyphs are for the silence
With which she guides me to her living tomb.

She is like the inscription on a stone,
More obscure as it is revealed.