You have me behaving
like a proper devil, who
on the brink of heaven,
perhaps by nature,
perhaps by mismeasure,
darns it all to welcome hell.
If I don’t get close to the angels,
Grandma, forgive me!
I wanted to see you again,
But I don’t deserve to;
You warned about the heart’s crusade;
Of all the selfish pillaging in love’s name.
And all but the blindest, deafest child knows
honour and glory do not come free; Knows
the faults that put far off the keys to heaven.
Nonetheless, be it long, or short-term,
I do not suffer regret.
Once I set foot on that soft cloud you bring me to,
the one even saints sought to arrive at in seclusion,
whatever lashing sorrow follows, my darling, I
will meditate on you as my savage soul, you,
as my divine symbol, you,
as the kick of my pulse, you,
as its form pronounced.