Versen der Seele

To she ho was flame, echo and a silent that speak.

If eve ye shallot doubt, know that this to was ours

LC

In low Voice, with all the soul.
 

Prologue

In the hour wherein the moon doth fall silent, when names dare not be uttered lest they wake the Wound, these leaves were written, not for the daylights gaze were they made, but for the shelter of the soul.

Herein thou shalt find no dates, but signs. No names, but fates entwined.

If what is writ here doth burn thee without hurt, if thou comprehends without a tongue to tell,

Then perchance thou wert she.

For this was not penned by a man, but by what of him remained when all had burned.

In Thy Name

Thy voice was home, was rescue, was recall,

From days unclock’d, where reason held no sway.

Like hearts found ’midst the ruin and the fall,

I found mine own, beholding thy array.

Thine eyes — O sparks of heav’n’s final design!

Did bid my trembling soul in silence rest.

And ah! — thy fingers, traitorless, divine,

Wove peace where once my blood beat unrest.

But thou dost go — no chain, no protest stays.

To love sans grasp — a noble, hallowed art.

Yet still my soul, so true, in shadowed ways,

Doth follow thee, though certainty depart.

Go, then, if fate so grants thee grief and strife…

I dwell in light — the light of thy fair life.

Sonnet

I“In the manner of the austere love of Don Francisco de Quevedo.“

When in blind stillness Thy visage visiteth me

I close mine eyes, and in the shade I find thee,

Not in the flesh, but flame thou com’st to me;

For he that loveth needeth not to see,

Nor know the face of whom he calleth “mine” be.

Thy lips kiss not, yet utter solemn speech,

In tongue long claimed by spells of sacred grace;

Like April’s bloom with neither dawn to reach,

A mem’ry none dare time’s decay replace.

To touch thy flesh is to touch things divine,

A martyr’s joy that maketh my soul plead;

And in thine eyes — alas! — doth truth outbleed,

The glass of God that breathed my fate so fine.

I burn for thee — not out of carnal thrill,

But slow to drink the warmth thy soul doth spill.

Sonnet I

To thee, who didst depart before the dawn

To thee, who didst depart before the dawn

Thou went’st thy way, the door yet left unclosed,

no parting word, but with a trembling breath,

as one whose ghost, if seen, might show in death

more truth than any vow that e’er was posed.

I tarried, with the cup still steaming warm,

a verse unsaid still dwelling on my tongue;

and though my face in coldness played its form,

my soul did cry — and fell where none belong.

I blame thee not, if fear thy steps did guide,

nor curse thy silence, nor thy fleeting tread.

Yet — O thou! — pain I could not well abide,

that love be hushed when common speech is fled.

Tell me: didst thou not feel that wound so wide,

when thou didst leave, and left mine heart for dead?

Sonnet II

To thee, who Visit´s me in shadow

To thee, who visit’st me in shadow

Thou com’st with footfall none, nor sound, nor day,

when fire is stilled and all the world lies low.

Thou touch’st me not, but leav’st a trace that stays,

like scent of bloom that spills its grief in woe.

No word thou speak’st, yet thine eyes pierce me deep,

more sharp than sword of Grecian wrath and pain.

Thou art both echo, flame, release, disdain—

a bleeding presence, silent though it weep.

In dark thou findest me, and in dark I dwell,

for only there this soul dare truth confess.

Where all deny me, thou dost show me well—

my shadow’s shape, my mirror’s loneliness.

Tell me, O thou—be this a hidden doom,

or Heaven’s grace to dream thee in the gloom?

Sonnet III

To Thy Soul who knoweth mine

To thy Soul who knoweth mine

I left, yet stayed; and stayed, yet was not here,

for I was not when I was lost in Thee.

I left my self where light did burn most clear,

and ’twas my shadow spake instead of me.

Nor flesh am I, nor Voice that crieth “Now”,

no step I leave where souls in silence stray;

but still to thee I call—O radiant Thou—

who took’st from me myself that fateful day.

The more thou go’st, the more I find thee nigh,

the less of me remains, the more I burn;

and if I silence keep, within doth cry

a song that waits thy name at each return.

Thus do I die, and yet I do not break,

for more I give thee, more my soul doth wake.

Sonnet IV

In Thy Name II

In Thy Name II

Thou, who in silence dost my core enflame,

not with the fire of flesh, but one divine,

arriv’st with neither shape nor name nor sign,

and leav’st thy fate in shadows, clothed in flame.

I know not if thou com’st from Heaven’s height

or from the wound my soul did dare to sip,

for sweet thou strik’st, and with the selfsame grip

dost raise me breathless into star-born light.

Thy voice is mute, yet in mine inmost deep

it tolls as sacred bell at dawn’s decree,

disarming pain with truth’s simplicity,

and wak’ning dreams that time could never keep.

And when thou art not near—more strong I bear thee,

as holy scent the morning air doth marry,as cross that burns… and leads me still, though weary.

Sonnet V

Of the Eternal Oath ´twixt Wandering Souls

Of the Eternal Oath ’twixt Wandering Souls

Thou saidst to me at ancient break of day:

“In some new life, again I shall thee find.”

And winds did seal the pact, both fierce and kind,

with kisses veiled in vows that could not stay.

A hundred winters passed in kindred light,

as bodies slept and left their turns behind;

yet not the whisper ’neath the star-stitched night

wherein thou raised my name from weary mind.

Now thee I meet, reborn in cloak of shade,

though thou depart, the vow shall never fall—

for souls that swear in love, forget not all,

but keep the oath though time and flesh do fade.

And if fate steals thee to the firmament’s end,

I shall thee find, O lady of my wound,

in other flesh, where love again is penned.

The Soul´s Vow

Confession before Thy Soul

Lo, I unclad me,

cast off mine armour,

and laid bare my soul before Thee.

With neither dread nor veil,

no shield, no cunning guise,

I showed Thee

the deepmost part of me.

Not the warrior, nor the bard,

nor the man shaped by the world,

but the trembling

of one who loveth true

and hideth not.

To Thee I did entrust the flame,

the wound,

the song.

And though silence made answer,

I do repent not.

For to love thus is to perish standing,

Yet rise anew

Eternal reborn 

In the remembrance of the just

„Where true flame doth burn, no silence may quench the fire.“

Sonnet VI

To Thee, who woundeth not – yet woundeth me

Thou, without wounding, leavest wounds in me,

Thou enter’st not in flesh, yet feed’st on mine;

Without a kiss upon the lips of thee,

Thou writ’st Thy name, in absence more divine.

Thou art my Cross, my Flower, my thirst resigned,

My Bread without a body, Flame I saw;

Thou gav’st me Faith, in shadows redefined—

Thou art my Death, and yet my Life and Law.

Who dared to dream such depth of holy trance,

If not by God, with ink of Heaven writ?

For only soul may bear such love’s expanse,

And only soul hath space to cradle it.

No flesh may stand against so sharp a blade,

No tongue may speak what I within do feel:

For soul is mute where soul is whole, unstayed—

And silence seals the wound none else may heal.

Canticle unto Absence

In the Style of the Sacred Century, writ to thy vanished presence

Where thy lips do utter naught,

Where thy lips do utter naught,

therein is born my humble lay;

for e’en the dew, in hushèd thought,

betrayeth not thy scent’s bouquet.

Within the tremble of the dawn,

when day laments thy vacant grace,

thy breath, though lost, doth still efface

the void — as flame by night is drawn;

as faith that stumbleth never on,

as wounds that sing within their place.

Thy name, a veiled and tender light,

by shadow unto me is shown;

each star that pierceth through the night

unveilèd bears thy flesh, mine own.

And though the world may turn from thee,

though form and frame in silence part,

no distant hour shall silence be

where absence keepeth still thy heart;

for I do feel thee, evermore.

Canticle of the Dark Dawn

In voice of he who saw, yet saw Thee not

In silence, burning without flame,

I beheld thy visage—shadow hushed,

and lo, my soul was sudden snatched

by light that woundeth not, yet doth inflame.

Thou spak’st no word, yet thine own gaze

pierced through the veil where soul doth sleep,

and lo, my breast a wound did keep

more sweet than life in all her days.

O Night obscure! O tenderness made grace,

that showeth the eternal formless One!

In Thee I found me lost, and yet undone,

unwittingly I followed Thee apace…

Free Canticle

In Baroque Spirit

The Light That Named Me, Nameless

(In the tongue of the sixteenth century)

Thou passedst by, noiselessly

as wind that stirreth the slumb’ring willows.

Thou spak’st not my name,

yet lo, my soul made answer.

On thy lips there dwelt a clause most plain:

“Let thy light o’ercome… evermore.”

And so it did.

For it was not word,

but fire that knew my flame.

Thou wert but passing,

yet eternal in my shade.

How know’st thou the lamp

that hideth my days?

The certitude remaineth,

That I was seen.

That someone, yea thou, 

Beheld my light, and knew

A Modern Madrigal

„To be whispered into the ear of one who still burnt in remembrance

If in thine arms there dwelleth light

Murmured the shadow thy hallowed name,

and in its echo my flesh did quake.

I begged not for clemency, nor for fate,

but for a corner within thy breast

wherein to die without a tear.

For if I lay beside thee, mute and still,

the night itself should be my sanctified altar.

For with a sigh

a moment unscathed

I beheld the light made flesh,

and pain turned

into madrigal.

Half Sonnet

To Thy Absence, Ever Faithful

I never held thee – yet I loved thee so,

No net, no knot, no yoke nor binding chain;

My soul did follow, like a hush’d refrain

That trails the sun where morning’s whispers go.

Thou wert my thirst, and thou my overflow,

The honey’d cup I dared not to contain;

And in not holding, still thy love remain—

For what is free, no bound can overthrow.

Free Verse

When Mine Own Soul Did Knoweth Thee

There is a secret trembling

when hearts touch without sound.

And now, when silence weighs more than speech,

I would but halt the world

at that exact point wherein thine eyes

did find their shelter within mine.

I seek not to possess thee,

but to caress thy soul with my fingertips,

to sigh with thee in a space that asketh nothing.

I long to kiss thy brow—

where tempests rise

and dreams untold do dwell.

I would but rest my hand upon thy arm,

as one who whispereth, “Thou needst not flee.”

And if thou lettest me,

I would let thee rest in me, a while,

as the world turneth and turneth,

and we, still,

hearken the music of the Now.

For I seek not to save thee, Laura.

I seek only to be.

With thee.

Whole.

In tenderness.

In truth.

A Canticle to the Soul

(I Hold Most Gentle)

When I Embrace Thee, I Feel Thy Frailty

When I do embrace thee,

it is not a mere leave-taking.

Nay—

the world itself doth fall to silence,

and granteth me a moment

to feel the whole of thee.

Thou sayest naught,

yet thy breath draweth near.

And in that hush between heartbeats,

mine own flesh perceiveth

all that thy lips forebeareth to speak.

I feel thee light—

as a thread of rainfall art thou.

Strong in thy bearing,

yet within—so tender,

as parchment olden, hid in time’s care.

It is not weakness.

’Tis thy truth unveiled.

Thy soul revealeth herself,

asking not, but simply being.

And I—

I press thee not.

I bind thee not.

I but receive thee.

For I do ken:

within that gentle clasp lies thy soft entreaty:

“Break me not. Bear me not down. Feel me—only feel.”

And feel thee, I do.

With mine heart laid bare,

and my soul outspread,

a refuge for thee to rest.

A Chapter from the Book of the Soul

Writ in the hush of a moment lived

Part I to III

When She Did Embrace Me

We were there, at the day’s edge,

departing from the place where flesh doth toil

and the soul keepeth her silence.

The talk unfolded,

as a casement flung wide after a night long shut.

She spake of giving her whole self,

and receiving naught in return.

Of sowing tenderness in barren fields,

and watching the winds bear it away.

I beheld her—

and with voice I did say:

“If thou receivest not as thou givest, then go.

Thou art worthy of a life replete—

no hollow noons,

no chill clothed in the guise of custom.”

But deep within me,

where words become prayer,

I spake unto her without sound:

“I am here. I see thee.”

And then…

she did embrace me.

No leave, no herald—

as if that embrace were both answer and altar,

recognition and refuge.

’Twas unlike the rest.

It bore weight, soul, and remembrance.

As though, for a breath of time,

the world hushed itself

and naught remained but we two.

Mayhap it was no farewell.

Mayhap it was a “thank thee.”

Or mayhap—only mayhap—

’twas Life herself who whispered:

“Ye know each other.”

When She Did Embrace Me (II)

After words… truth without voice

After the embrace,

there was no need for speech.

Yet within me, a thousand phrases fell silent,

clattering in mine own soul

as rain upon glass of ancient pane.

She spake of emptiness—

of giving love as one who watereth a barren tree,

hoping for life… and receiving but silence.

I did hearken—

not with mine ears alone,

but with mine eyes,

with mine heart,

with all within me that hath learnt to love in hushèd ways.

I yearned to tell her:

“There is one who doth love thee,

though thou seest it not.

There is a gaze that goeth with thee,

though thou feel’st it not.

There is a soul that knoweth thee,

though all seemeth strange and afar.”

Yet I did but think it.

For some truths, once utter’d aloud,

are made brittle and broken.

And she…

she did embrace me,

as though she had heard it.

And that embrace…

was not she alone.

’Twas also I,

in the hour I had forsaken hope to be seen.

’Twas also Time, kneeling for but a breath,

to bless us in stillness.

And whilst the world did press on,

whilst folk did pass by,

whilst the day did wane—

I spake within, with a voice of eternity:

“I go not. I am with thee.

Though it be in silence.”

When She Embraced Me (III)

“Take care” — “Thou too”

(Translation into Early Modern English)

The day did fall as a gentle veil.

We were but twain amidst clamour and hush.

The moment was small —

yet within it did breathe some vast thing.

There was no music.

There were no applauses.

Only two souls upon the world’s edge,

each with the weight of life upon the back,

yet for a brief while, light as air.

She turned.

A final glance.

An embrace that could not be feigned.

Not as comrades. Not of duty.

But as a silent vow.

— “Take heed of thyself,” quoth I.

— “And thou as well,” quoth she.

Two words. Two gentle pleas.

Two manners of loving without clamour.

And we did walk.

Parted, aye.

Yet not alone.

For deep within, we knew:

There was aught between us.

Perchance a light. Perchance a memory old.

And in still voice, within mine own breast, I did murmur:

“I behold thee. I am here. And so art thou.”

„Not all things are thine to hold, yet some remain, even unclaimed.“

Epilogue

In the Stillness beyond the Final Page

There wast a name thou once didst bear,

when yond first dusk falleth ’pon the earth —

and I did know thee.

Thou wast Amara,

she who walketh betwixt shadow and flame,

with a soul too vast to be hid.

And I, Elian,

he who didst bide the turning of ages,

bearing within the memory of thy light.

Ours was not a meeting of firsts,

but a remembrance —

a thread rekindled, not spun anew.

And lo, now again I voweth:

Should this life slip from our hands,

should time part thee from mine arms once more —

I shall seek thee.

In this life,

or in the one to cometh.

Where thy light burneth,

there shall mine soul wander also.

For we were ne’er meant to be forsaken,

but only delayed.

And I, still, in truth and soul believe:

That one day,

we shall be whole again.

Unto Eternity.

„And let the light within you win  every time.“