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Spaces Between Friends

Here is no Waters but only rock, Rock and
no Waters and the sandy road.

The road winding above among the mountains,
which are mountains of rock without Waters.

If there were Waters we should stop and drink,
amongst the rock one cannot stop and think.

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand, "If"
there were only Waters amongst the rock.

Dead mountain mouth that cannot spit, here one
can neither stand nor lie or sit.

There is not even silence in the mountains, but
dry sterile thunder without rain.

There is not even solitude in the mountains, but
read sullen faces sneer and snarl, from doors
of mudcracked houses.

"If" there were "Waters," and no rock.

"If" there were rock, and also Waters.

And Waters, a spring, a pool among the rock.

"If" there were the sound of Waters only, and
dry grass singing.

But sound of Waters over a rock, where the
hermit-dew sings in the pine trees.

Drip drop drip drop drip drop drop drop drop.

But there is no Waters.

In this decayed hole among the mountains, in
the faint moonlight, the grass is singing.

Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel,
there is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.

It has no windows, and the door swings, dry bones
can harm no one.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree, Co co rico co
rico, in a flash of lightning.

Then echoed a damp gust bringing rain, Hell was
sunken.

Limp leaves waited for rain, while the black clouds,
gathered far distant, over the mountain.

The jungle crouched, humped in silence.

Then spoke the thunder.

My friend, blood shaking my heart, the awful darling
of a moment's surrender, which an age of prudence
can never react.

By this, and this only, we have existed, which is not
to be found in our obituaries.

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider, or
under seals broken by the lean solicitor.

In our empty rooms, I have heard the key turn in the
door once and turn once only, we think of the key,
each confirms a prison.

Only at nightfall, aesthetic rumors, revive for a
moment a broken heart.

The dreamboat responded gaily, to the hand expert with
sail and oar.

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded gaily,
when invited, beating obedient to controlling hands.

I sat upon the shore, fishing, with the arid plain
behind me.

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

(If I were a good man I would understand the spaces between friends.)

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