The Wings of Solitude

The Wings of Solitude

The Wings of Solitude

(Dedicated to Khalil Gibran)

Somewhere in the book of existence, upon its silent pages,
Between the hour of union and the hour of separation,
Between our journeying and realization,
Between our knowledge and understanding,
Between infinity and infinity,

Among those born of women, reared by men, and nourished by the sun,
Some spend their lives wayfaring as pilgrims,
Some spend their lives as orators upon the hills,
Some spend their lives quenching their thirst for the beauty which they only wish to cage,
Some spend their lives in pursuit of the faces which will give them naught but masks,
And the gods which they only desire to crucify.

Some stand frozen and yet proud like unto dead corpses,
Overpowering the world with their heaviness,
Veiling the world with the darkness of their own souls,
Some weave their houses with the silky hands of ache and sorrow in their silent suffering.

Some voice the pain caused by the fetters that enslave them in the name of love,
Some release their endless youth in fields of flowers,
Tasting the sweetness of the wine that exists between a man and a woman,
Letting their spirits understand beauty.

Some erect palaces of diamond, marbel, and gold as if competing with the unborn glory of the firmament of existence,
Some build their temples within themselves and play the music of their infinite longing upon their flutes which only the still night can bear in its own heart.

Some shout at the distant mountains and remove the wings of their dignity,
Some seek refuge from such ailment and agony in their solitude and sit beside the calm waters, ever distant and lonely, yet very close to the Heart of all hearts.

Some live and die like the winds,
Racing along with the shadows at a frightening pace,
Imprisoned in the dark labyrinth of Nature's restlessness,
Appearing with the sun of their delight at dawn, and
Vanishing with the sun of their grief at noontide,
Never knowing why.

But I only wish to spend my life with you, my Beloved,
Speaking of the fragile little winged creatures that soar so high in the boundlessness of the spacious sky which love spans for them,
Bending with the reed upon whom, like unto a woman and a mother, the burden of life falls,
Singing the song of the morning dew and the silent-bound waters,
Resounding the depths of the solitude of God,
Painting the curves of passion upon the summits of beauty.

I only wish to spend eternity with you, my Lover,
Burning with the sun and the stars of your passion,
Kissing the shyness of the moon in your countenance,
Threading the lonely path of return with a winged heart and bleeding feet,
Encircling the universe in the freedom of our aloneness,
Dissapearing upon the furthest horizons with a tear and a smile.

I only wish to walk this lonely road to the end with you, my Love,
Embracing its mysteries without being offended by their depths,
Leaping upon the lonely shores of existence with the naked children of the seasons,
Rejoicing with the grass and the flowers kissed by the morning sun,
Conversing with the rain that fills the earth with tenderness and moistens the heart with compassion.

I only wish to breathe your breath, Gibran,
Befriending your solitude,
Shaking before the breeze of the tender winds in your utterances,
Swallowing the wine and the mist of your language which, uttered by infinite strings and proclaimed upon the high tides of your infinite passion,
Bespeaks the innocent tempest, the swirling winds, and the eternal hues of your infinite sky.

Take me home, my hidden Desire,
Lead me to the place where all the winds are born as wayfarers and die as silent martyrs.

Take me home, my winged Prophet,
Let us walk hand in hand in all seasons, naked like unto babes,
Running like unto the lonely brooks and the mountain streams in a hidden vastness known only to the poets of life's seasons.

Take me home, my eternal Delight,
Bring me to the entrance of your shrine with the delight of the white lily, and
Enfold me in the wings of your solitude.

Many are those who sacrifice their lives in battle fields,
Many are the babes taken away from their mothers' breasts,
Many are the flowers crushed before blossoming.

But I just want to die beside you, my Sweetheart,
After we have lived enough and therefore died enough,
Endlessly asking for the answers about the meaning of life and the secret of death,
Which not a single demon knows and which no angel can bear.

Come close to my bosom, my Brother,
Who speaks my language of mist and breathes my breath of fire,
Whose spirit is the soul of my heart,
Whose flame is the light of my comprehension.

Hold me tight, my Friend,
Let us carry our great secret to the infinite silence beyond the mournful sky and the restless sea.

Had we not planted anything in this field called life with our staggering hands,
We would not be harvesting the fruits of our restlessness today.

But I say unto you, my Love,
Just kiss my silent sorrow and caress my broken wings,
Pierce me with your sentiments and break the chains of my hands and feet,
Open the doors of my heart and light its corners with your beauty,
Shut my ears to the clamor of the world and whisper into the heart of my life's autumn the murmur of the rivulets of wine and the poetry of the forgotten dust of the past.

Put me to sleep with your song of the timelessness of love and beauty,
Weave around my heart the wings of the seafaring falcons,
Dissolve my breath in the infinity of your penetrating gaze,
Burn my wounded spirit in the fire of your imagination,
And crucify my restlessness in the depths of your solitude.

Love,

Dani