In The Style of an Old Christmas Card
There is a veil of sadness on your eyes
(It makes them more beautiful).
Your pace is that of a young gazelle
(Quick and timid, and fleeting).
I can almost hear the beats of your heart
(pounding irregularly like a wild bell).
You seem to ponder over whether life has a taste
(And, if it has one, whether it is a bitter taste,
like that of a hangover, or of forgotten nightmare).
I wish I were a real poet,
so I could write for you those lines
which we are all anxious to read when we discover
that, after all, we have a soul.
I am not a poet.
I am nothing at all.
Just a tongue of fire.
I cannot even find rhymes.
I can offer but little.
Just friendship, and irony, and understanding.
Some drops of metaphysical anxiety.
A sigh of lust.
Too little, or too much.
But never the right dose.
Never the proper count.
Never the exact amount.
I wish I knew of what stuff is made
the seventh seal that wraps and veils
the hearts of young females.
I have an inkling that it is made
of a most delicate tissue.
Something that is trembling and touching,
but that can be torn away
so that through melancholic pain
the sweet taste of life shines through again.
(So half in earnest, half in jest
I found a rhyme at last).