What does spring do to the cherry trees?

What does spring do to the cherry trees?

(A humble tribute to Neruda)

In modest ways must I express

What I intend

When you’ll come

As a stream in seclusion untouched

Or a river full of drowned men

To me, the sea,

Where we’ll be alone and one.

Our waters will mingle;

Blue, brown, red and green

Will collapse

Into a shade of grey.

In serenity on the surface

Will the waves meet

Cloaking the heat with which

Currents will clamp underneath;

Imitating the four lips

For whom individuality is now a myth

As two tongues squabble

In the space sealed, they seek

A site not scrolled yet,

They’ll fail, of course,

But to suceed not they slide. 

The world lying in surrender

Speaks to me in silent sound,

My fingers map through

Your dark hills, your dark thighs

And the soil on which they spread

From the scar fading from sight

To the crow’s feet on your face that stretch

When the now busy lips in idleness smile.

The lips then to rest recede

And fingers find themselves fighting

With the tongue

To helm the goblets of breast,

To lose in the roses of the pubis.

The eyes in the meantime

Mimic the stars of the sky

Under which we play,

Stay still, twinkle and then diminish,

From the fumes of nothingness,

Take birth again.

We forget how our souls suffered

The stains on them before we met

And the stains with which we might have speared

The soul that through such rose;

It stands as we sleep,

It’s quiet as we quiver,

It’s mum as we moan.

And while you’re still here

Let me do

What the spring does to the cherry trees.