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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476531" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Could I Breathe The Stars</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Could I breathe the stars, I would expire in light. <br>Were I the harvest moon, I would retract my claws. <br>Were my heart anything other than what it is, <br>I would be a windfall of silver apples burnished by crows <br>and not this rag of a man with a mouthy wound.<br>I would not be this perversion of radiance mutating <br>in these acephalic mirrors warped by shape-shifting space. <br>I would see clearly the angry red berries of the hawthorn <br>and adopt them as a solar system. And think I was blessed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, o yes, spiky woman, when love was in eclipse <br>if I were not so afraid of falling upon you like a sword, <br>I would notch the moon like a gunsight<br>with its own valleys and mountains, <br>and let the light shine through like Bailey's Beads, <br>and place it on your head like a laurel of fire, <br>the enlightened corona of a door I've left ajar.<br>You agitate the spiders in their morning webs <br>into vibrating like the needles of sewing machines <br>or the clappers of fire alarms, as the sun<br>takes the pulse of its dreamcatchers, <br>looking for signs of life from the night before. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am a creature of darkness. I know the abyss. <br>It fills you like a universe you just can't seem <br>to get your heart and arms around. <br>It's bigger than the wingspan of your spirit, <br>the one vacuum nature doesn't abhor. <br>No end of it. No beginning you can hope for. <br>You embody the impersonality of it intimately. <br>The dark mother of the abounding stars <br>whose beauty adds an edge to the emptiness <br>that keeps you from pleading for oblivion<br>in an isolation deeper than the dead. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The irises were surgically removed from your eyes <br>and you're out looking for rainbows at night with a match. <br>But there's no one to keep your promises to, <br>and just at the bend in the river, where you laid <br>a poppy on the grave of the white crow<br>to pay your respects to the end of the road, <br>you plunge over the edge of a finger-pointing precipice <br>like a willow of water into an ocean of awareness <br>and there's no one there to catch you. And the dreamcatchers <br>aren't the safety nets they said they were. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Were I a witchdoctor that knew the antidote to love<br>I would come with strange concoctions <br>of the Pleiades and deadly nightshade <br>ground with a sexual pestle in the mortar of my skull <br>and spiced with a measure of the inconceivable<br>and have you rise from your death bed <br>like a miracle among roses that escaped the frost. <br>I'd stroke the back of your hand like the head of a swan.<br>And you'd feel it melting like ice. The moon would bloom <br>like a love letter delivered to a dead branch.<br>The nightmare of the dispassionate fever <br>would transmutate into an elixir of life <br>that would thrill every flower into believing they had<br>lightning for roots. Wondrous blossoms of insight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Into the Open. Into the Absence, the nihilistic emptiness <br>of the cup poured out in a hemorrhage of the heart<br>when the wine went bad. Someone there in the doorway<br>gone like a shadow from the sundial of the farewell <br>they left you with like the wing of a bird<br>that doesn't sing anymore in the morning.<br>And even the birch groves don't feel very strong <br>when they've been cast down by an ice storm <br>into white canes and crutches of suffering<br>you once could lean on for emotional support.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would be a lightbulb in a house well for you <br>to keep you from freezing and more grandiosely <br>if I were a pagan architect, I would erect a temple <br>with pillars of fire for you that even time <br>when its hair grows out like solar flares <br>couldn't pull down in a fury of indignant ions.<br>There would be no lack of heretics, martyrs, <br>or Norse gods to sing in your flames<br>because they would have finally found something <br>greater than their solipsistic selves to sacrifice to <br>that consumes them with devotion<br>axially aligned with you. And wherever you walked <br>true north would be under your feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As it is I follow you like an oriflamme <br>in a pageant of longing I will not be ransomed from.<br>And even if the court jester to the queen <br>isn't the grand marshal that gets to carry it, <br>the one who rides first in the wake of your love, <br>his armour burning like a mirror of your reflected fire, <br>I have raised a small banner of blood <br>on the lance of a thorn the white knights <br>would think was laughably burlesque<br>were it not for the fact that it pours out of a dragon's eyes<br>like the eclipse of a black rose in tears <br>igneously bleeding in the darkness <br>to temper its fangs like swords it remits in tribute, <br>from a burning bridge of fireflies, <br>to the solitary river of the unhonoured waters of the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476531" data-title="Could I Breathe The Stars de Patrick White" data-description="Could I breathe the stars, I would expire in light. 
Were I the harvest moon, I would retract my claws. 
Were my heart anything other than what it is, 
I would be a windfall of silver apples burnished by crows 
and not this rag of a man with a mou..."></div>
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