somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, misteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
-------------------------------
supposing i dreamed this)...
supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-
your walls will not reckon how
strangely my life is curved
since the best he can do
is to peer through windows,unobserved
-listen,for(out of all
things)dream is noone's fool;
if this wind who i am prowls
carefully around this house of you
love being such,or such,
the normal corners of your heart
will never guess how much
my wonderful jealousy is dark
if light should flower:
or laughing sparkle from
the shut house(around and around
which a poor wind will roam
Dobradinha e.e. cummings para suportar a segunda-feira de mudanças, e manter a cachola nas nuvens.
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