Time to move on or is it - Page 3

My Dear, My Friend

If only I could be sure my dear, my friend
If I could be sure that the weariness of your heart,
the gloom of your eyes, the burning in your chest,
would go away with my love, my consolations.
If my comforting words could be the remedy with which
would come alive again your barren, despondent wit,
the scars of disrepute would wash from your face,
your afflicted youth would be cured.
If only I could be sure my dear, my friend.

Day and night, dawn and dusk, I would amuse you.
I would sing to you songs, sweet and melodious.
Songs of spring-time, of pretty gardens, of graceful waterfalls
Songs of morning's dawn, of the full moon, of stars
I would tell you the stories of Beauty and Love
Of how icy-cold statues of arrogant beauties
melt helplessly in the warmth of a warm embrace.
Of how, in the blink of an eye they change:
the familiar features of a friendly face.
Of how the crystal wine-cup of beloved's cheek
fills up in an instant with burning red wine.
Of how a rose presents itself to a rose-picker's hand
Of how the palace of night become fragrant in spring-time.

I would sing to you like so, sing to you for ever.
Weave poems for you, sit beside you, for ever.
But my poems are not a remedy for your afflictions.
A song is not a surgeon, just a comforter and a consoler.
A poem is not a scalpel, perhaps a balm for your sores
But your wounds have no cure but the edge of a scalpel
And this savage messiah is not in my control.
Not in the control of any soul in this world.
Yes but except you, except you, except you.

(The hand of morning breeze)