Cythaera and the Song

The narrow door

Is open to the starlight. Let us go,

Beloved, toward the night.

We venture into darkness-when we speak

It is like wind blowing through withered grass,

While from our hearts no word

Disturbs the silence where we pass:

And though our fingers sparkle when they touch,

Like fireflies, our fingers still are young;

Our spirits have forgotten much-

Night is a song in a forgotten tongue.

We try to fling

Our lives into the night-our bodies sway,

We gesture bravely with our hands;

Our spirits cling

To the safe nothingness of yesterday.

And so at last, unshattered as before,

Laughing, breathless, desperate, we return

To the narrow door.