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