Willy Pogány

You have gone ahead
seen the white doors of hope
the red gates of gladness
you have rested near the angels
listened to the speech of the birds of eternity
lotus flowers grow in your every footprint

On another night
you look at me
and oh that you see
all the shadows haunting me!
Here I am,
the girl who breathes darkness
all my sorrows
disappear into your silence
my monologue of evil thoughts

and oh how I am aware of my minuteness
when you are so bright, bright

Artuš Scheiner

We breathe the same air
we think the same thoughts
you see an orange tree garden by the sea
I, a field and a dark forest of spruce trees
where a sick maiden sleeps
mute, unforgiving
it takes my breath away every time I remember it is me

At dawn I only have promises to give
as a girl I secretly read others' diaries,
this makes me ashamed
but promises at dawn I treat the same
as angels disguised as beggars
or the unlocked doors of kings' chambers.

John Bauer, The King and the Girl

The glowing meadow blooms
under my palms
for one day or one hour
or at least when I'm dreaming the old dream
where you give me a secret name,
the One Who Joins Hearts Together

and the whole winter you don't let go of my hand
it is the best winter of all

Edward Burne-Jones

Grieve not my sisters,
for you know not the whole truth

The breezy meadows whisper
like the darkening sky bending down to us
full of Chinese kites
and mute lights
Oh let's bury this muteness!
If only you would let me see
your hidden sorrows,
forgotten dreams,
sacrificed hopes

For that is how you are
a sacrificial fire is always alight on your altar
yet I have seen you weeping
my sisters, give me the words!

At the silent gate of the dragon house
my arms are heavy and broken
from carrying ten thousand wishes
now I only wish to catch my breath.

When I open my eyes,
there you are

John William Waterhouse

The reality:
it is only my old nightmares poisoning me
it is me who is asleep
here in the fragrance of the mountain herbs
you have laid me down on the wild flowers
you have called my name
yet I still don't know you
even when your eyes are full of self-evidencies

Oh North wind, bring me soon the truth,
the humility,
the patience
all that he already is

Once upon an evening
you are black like the mountains at new moon
your breath heavy from too many yesterdays
but I have become a cherry tree
my petals are snow
on your feverish forehead

The air around us is lighter
when you speak to me
about your enigmatic, inexplicable dreams

Then
the name of my heart is Patience
and of my arms, Long-suffering
mystical, arduous Perseverance

You have fallen silent
your aching like snow flakes brushing my skin
and finally, sleep like the night beings
swooping you up in her healing visions
but I am full of a thousand tiny stars.

Sulamith Wulfing

You are the tree that blooms early
your eyes lead to the ocean
where the light falls into the distance
the shadows of raindrops stream on your skin
the wind blows between us
you wouldn't agree perhaps,
but the most delightful earth
is the one you stand on

Sometimes
my hands are buried in that earth.
I dream about your ocean,
there is no speech
only the dwelling places of higher beings

We walk on the shore
with gentle quiet steps
your hand in my hand is my anchor
and I don't want to think about anything else,
or really I try not to think
to be there for you with my entire being

Konstantin Vasiliev, Swans

My feet are rooted next to the path
you walk most often
in a place where only
the stream and the clouds can be heard
and in the mornings
walking is without crying, despairing

How lovely it is
to hear you singing in the afternoons
under the jasmin tree
that grew from my prayers
by that tree I am mute
bound by incomprehensibilities

What if I left
before the tide
and wrote a thousand letters to you
by nightfall
Would you dream of me?
Would you miss me by the path
you walk most often?
In the place where only the secret birds can be heard
and the sighs of the pansies and roses.

Marjorie Miller, Spring Promise

Your bride listens to the nightingale
her hands the same colour as the first flowers,
the plum, the peach, the apple,
the little ones like lilies
between the mossy rocks
on the small hill we walked to last night.
I sat at the feet of the statue
the birds' song was a colourful living weave
more colourful than the orange sunset
Perhaps you kissed my hair
took me by the waist and twirled me in the air
when I started complaining

Your wife prone to complaining,
your self-sacrificing wife,
bitter, paranoid, constantly escaping,
timid, vulnerable, frail,
or like a copse of birches in the Spring
misty green, fresh, patient
with a hint of joyfulness

Your bride hears the nightingale in the darkness
and smiles softly

Vladimir Kush,
Burn, Burn My Candle

You the most beautiful light
the holy living glow of the flame
you were born of the brightness of the Sun on the sea,
the first star of the evening in the disappearing sky

I wasn't looking for anything, I didn't
choose which light
you could even say that my life was
clamped shut and the world,
I had no knowledge of it
only of my narrow fears

The Sun brought you
when I was sitting under the bare magnolia tree
waiting for the Spring.
I was afraid but I fought
my eyes had become clouded and I didn't notice
that wearing the night on your shoulders,
you had opened your arms to me

Christian Schloe, In Bloom

We will speak
on the seventh day of the Seventh-month
once the time of evil spirits has passed.
Our breaths invisible,
the cherry tree blossoming
somewhere away from our hearing

No threat of snow,
the sky almost clear
We will speak of yesterday's sunset,
the roses entangled in the garden,
the two doves that must soon fly
to unknown cities, far apart.
The pure white orange blossoms blooming
somewhere by the heavenly temple

Morningside

Marianne Stokes, Aucassin and Nicolette

On the eastern fields
the Sun has risen.
We await in arid darkness
you expectant,
me despairing.
Why so impatient
when the first timid rays
can already be seen by the meadows?

Life must become beautiful yet.
Once the noisy caravans have gone
all the windows will be open in our house
with the scent of northern rain
subtly pouring in

There we will meet
the sickly lady from the North
the uncomplicated man of the South
the cold of her touch
warmed by his gentle burning
the sadness in his gaze
dissolved by the light of her laughter

There we will meet
by the ancient fig tree
no shadows between us
no fearful thoughts
or the curse of not knowing

Let not my love or my needs

Bind him;

But let me become a sacred fire

Always kept aflame for him

Upon his every return;

Let not any evil intention

Part from my lips

Lest it darken his soul;

But let the light that speaks to me

Speak through me

So that he can hear it also;

Let not my demands or my expectations

Be a weight upon us;

But let my gratitude, like the myrtle

Growing within my soul

Fragrance his dark and lonely path.

For it is not my thought that I left with him

But my whole heart;

So protect him from my weakness

If my heart ever wanders astray

And let me become a tree

Upon which he can lean,

An ocean

To whose song he can sleep to,

A soothing balm to heal all his sorrows;

Let my each day

Become a pilgrimage to the sacred altar

To joyfully sacrifice

The self-consideration and fear

The unfairness and pain

Please mold me

Fit to hold a Divine hope, a love and a wisdom

To be a light for him

Should he ever get lost.

Love is a promise

to stay awake with you for ten thousand nights

or until your nightmares no longer frighten you;

To wait for you for a hundred years

or until the love of others

no longer lifts you up;

To plant trees for you

that the birds may come

and lighten your heart with their songs;

Love is to walk through thunderstorms

and cross dark oceans

only to be there to hold your hand

and sit in silence with you

under the starry sky

To tend your fire

through the deep infinite winter

even when frost covers my trembling soul,

Friedrich Wilhelm von Schadow,
detail of The Parable of the
Wise and Foolish Virgins

to catch a glimpse of you,

or even to hear your name

is like the morning breeze in the spring;

Love is to have my heart close to bursting

because the one I love is so deeply and powerfully,

magically, mystically, inexplicably

beautiful

radiant

This is the kind of love

I want to give to you

I may not have much

but the very little imperfect love I have

I want to lay at your feet

I want to devote myself to you

and to dedicate my every effort to you

because my life has worth

when I can sacrifice it for you.

Catrin Welz-Stein, Ice Princess

I have dreamt
of endless white frosty plains
it is the same as the dreams
of my life
where to see is hateful
where to hear and breathe is hateful

Then you return
and the winter of a hundred years
comes to an end.
Now I remember
that I have seen the place too
where the sun shines on white lilies
in complete silence;
it was you who brought me to that place

I do not need anything now
may I just carry
the difficult things which will not let you