ON THE ROAD

I went along, alone, to the mystery beneath a sun of madness,
And you spilled your shadow upon me, pilgrim;
Your glance was kind, like a dark path,
Like a damp path covering the way.

Prodigal and fertile to me was your bag of tenderness:
I had the simplicity of bread, and the flame of wine;
But your soul in a fold of its astral raiment,
A burr of gold and shadow, bore off my destiny.

My hands, which your hands covered, never
Shall grow cold, and holding fast in the sweet close mesh
Of your caress, will never be able to caress!…

In my body, a tower of memory and hope
With the feel of marble and the dream of wax,
Your shadow casts roses of fire in the hearth
And in my soul, a castle desolate and sounding
With patinas of tedium and moistness of tears,

Your shadow casts roses of snow in the hearth!