YOUNG POET

The grinning clamour on your face

Dies abruptly, for moments:

Boldness and timidity

Are swept, transfigured, against each other.

But the glistening turmoil

Once more spurns itself with jests

That light its troubled hands.

When too much pain has lowered

The eyelids of your mood,

A peaceful humour wraps your face.

You are like an old man

Watching children fly from his fingertips.

In your kirtle of borrowed skies

You find a sorrow luring your horizons

Into hesitating brightness....

When night remembers, you have straightened

Into stealthy, angry calmness

Fingering it first, unsent arrow.