When I see your face, the stones start spinning.
You appear. All studying wanders.
I lose my place.
Water turns pearly.
Fire dies down and does not consume.
In your presence I do not want
what I thought I wanted,
those three little hanging lamps.
Inside your face the ancient manuscripts
seem like rusty mirrors.
You breathe, and new shapes appear.
The music of a desire as widespread as spring
begins to move like a great wagon.
Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside are lame.
