William Corner Clarke
In The Original
You are like a poem
in translation
from a language
I have no knowledge of
Strange word made flesh
rendered in the common tongue
of Time and Place
A resonance of meaning
perceived
but barely understood
Your subtleties of feeling
are all but lost
amid barbaric lines
Your rhythm altered
by the necessities of form
Your images
are obscure
filtered as they are
through metaphors
that fail to catch
the light that you reflect
I know I should
read you in the original
language of your soul
But I do not
even know the place
from where you came
I hear only
the timbre and the tone
of a far-off land
See only eyes
that see what I
have never seen.
Page(s) 14
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