Prayer

for laundryshapedsouls
—-

I am lost to the world.

 

In flights of fancy almost eternal, swiftly I twirl with you high above the clouds, above the grey morning that calls for our closure—when, for the living of the day, I part with you even though, like Prometheus, part of me dies every time that happens. And, like Prometheus, that portion of me is reborn when night approaches, and I hear your whispers in the wind, sweet words—a goddess’ silent message—that cough to me stealthily and release me from the worries of the day.

 

My words fail miserably to do you justice. But in your loving me, I am made worthy—meine Seele, mein Herz! The dice that Einstein claimed God does not play with have been rolled; they pick us out, you and I, and when we walk down that lovely road to our land (a thematic profanity), it is as if the soundtrack of our lives have run together into this amalgam of violins and flutes: a melting profusion of sounds, pyrotechnics, appoggiature and anticipations.

 

Oh! j’en veux faire le nid,

Où ton cœur se pose.

 

Even Homer nods—what more us lowly mortals? To reembark on such a journey after falling, is like walking through headwinds and rains to find that pot of gold at the bottom of the rainbow. Impossible though it is, I have found it, and in it, I have found myself. That pot of gold is you, you who in my dreams take me through worlds unknown and ecstasies unfound!

 

It is because of you that I breathe; because of you, I live. Each minute is an excruciating delight, squeezed out of dreamy suffering and giddy serendipity. The pigeons of glass fly madly, blindly, trapped in the hourglass of our flowing collective unconscious. And even though there is still sand in the top bulb, sand that represents the remainder of both our lives, it does not fall—hanging in the air, individual grains blurring together into a quantum unresolvability, a curtain of solid Time frozen in its passing, just for me to love you.

 

I am lost to the world.

 

The sun exists, even though it is night. You are that sun, that shining body that I worship, I adore: threads of warmth run from you like the woven tapestries of melody adorning the cottage perched on that hill of dreams, vantage point from which we see the world. Reality bends around us into a crosshatch of dream: c’est l’extase langoureuse, c’est la fatigue amoureuse, and in the soft nasal murmurings of butterflies to the rooted flowers by the lane I hear your voice; in the mild evening visiting each blade of grass I feel your breath.

 

Frühling, sind das alle deine Blümelein?

Sonne, hast du keinen hellern Schein?

 

No words I say can truly say what I want to say: I look to the things that you have shown me—things I would not have known or seen, viewpoints quaint or abandoned, jewels precious and sparkling. Midnight is here, and I do not only see a dark sky dotted by six stars and lit by the moon through the curtains beside my bed, but I hear the breezes and I hear the nightsounds in far-off countries unimaginable, and with some effort I can tap into the dreamstuff of the dozing neighbours from inside my mind, perhaps even attempt to send a message to you through this stream of sleep.

 

And I hear you in the music I make, the music I like—intensely enchaining, I hear your laughter in each melody, your song. In the floaty lovemaking lies a rapid fingerfall of hammers at which everyone except you and I cease to breathe, indeed, cease to exist, and the myths and legends created by the music dance and frolic with us in dreamscapes of rainy light and light rain. Each note is a caress: —listen! —listen! It is I, it is Ondine who brushes with these drops of water the vibrant panes of your window…my song, sung only for you!

 

I am lost to the world. It spins, but Time remains unmoving in my dreams.

 

The fugues of the world’s mundane calling reiterates itself on the inside of my skull, beating out a frenzied rhythm. Yet when you are in my mind, as you are, always, the bright carillon of your presence drowns out the drumming; sound congeals and condenses to be the dew falling softly on a dormant rose, slipping quietly into a dreamy, innocent calyx, unstained, untouched. And you purify me with your love—all-encompassing, all-nourishing: I live it, I need it, I breathe it.

 

The stars array themselves in surreal patterns I cannot fathom; my eyes see you in everything I do.

 

You flow in my blood like the spirit of a sacrificial offering; your blood mixes with mine where the water turns to wine: in the beautiful intoxication I gladly succumb to there is a hope of being able to transcend time and space, to fly with you to the stars, where life will not interfere with us, and we turn immortal!


But my words bleed from my lips, flowing down my chin like so much spilled liqueur d’amour, and my impassioned cries are dust specks illuminated in the air on a morning where the shafts of sunlight break through the canopies covering my melting heart…

 

In this prayer to you, my goddess, my words are so small, so insignificant that I look to others to say what one as lowly as I cannot hope to…!

 

Notre amour est chose éternelle

Comme tout ce qu’un dieu vainqueur

A touché du feu de son aile,

Comme tout ce qui vient du cœur,

—Notre amour est chose éternelle!

 

My heart is yours, my life, my soul—oh you my muse, my love!

 

I am lost to the world, and you are the one that led me from this existence into a paradisiacal realm where love caresses us, and we sleep, soundly, forevermore.

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