Meet Here

Lovers meet here
where there are not two.
The color is deep burgundy.
The fragrance is musk.
They drink the wine of annihilation
with its bouquet of stars.
The sound? Breathlessness.
Well, dear, it brings tears.
I think it may be your true name,
this murmur of dawn that loons
and thrushes listen to, tilting
their heads just before singing...
Now you must hear it,
the keening of a thousand
galaxies goldenly born
from the darkness in your chest.
Call it silence.

H. J. Ford watercolor, illustration for
The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam