All dreams, all prayers have prescribed cycles:
Cycles to complete, before lovers meet,
Before the unreal merges into the very real,
Before these notions can turn concrete.
Let’s settle in a make-shift home one day:
There is no end to this sobbing, as I see;
And if I choose to stay where I am and to feel,
I may drown in a flood of the
salt-water of me!
As they sing their bird-song, all the while,
In silence you plur, as if in exile.