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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476771" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Hands Were Once</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My hands were once the afterlives of birds <br>that caressed the cheeks of the sky<br>and brushed back the wind from its eyes, <br>and took a finger to intercede with a tear<br>not to start a pilgrimage without a little laughter, <br>and I am of the stuff of three stars<br>and a fire in my loins<br>that inseminated space with planets<br>and wrought red iron into bells of blood, <br>and leaned on calcium for ladders of bone<br>and taught the four-armed shivas of carbon to grasp life<br>and dance for the wheat and the grapes and the poppies, <br>and man lying down with woman <br>in waters urged by the fires of thought<br>furiously rooted in the gardens of the stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am the ancestor and offspring of everything<br>and even my solitude is the loneliness of the mountains<br>sleepwalking over their own seabeds, <br>and the way I love, a trigger of oxygen, <br>and the way I see, a whisper of time and space, <br>a feather of moonlight dipped in the ink of the night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have within me, <br>deep in the vaults of my wounds, <br>swords from the wars of the grass and the trees, <br>and words that sang like arrows in the sacred groves<br>to answer why I live and what I'm looking for<br>and why all my foundation stones are shoes worn out with roads, <br>and who is it looking back at me like a dark echo in a dream<br>to see if I'm coming like a shadow with a voice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there are mysterious robes lighter than a breath of silk, <br>auroras and lightstorms, waterskins of the water-walking stars <br>that have plied themselves like the rings in the heartwood of a tree, <br>journals of light and rain, to sailor my spirit in a chronicle of flesh, <br>and be a brief thing in a brevity of eras, to know <br>why the tiger dies looking into the open, its eyes<br>yellow lamps in the bluing of the early morning<br>as if its death were already achieved a breath behind it<br>and a man crawls toward a meaning on his knees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All the deaths are mine, the births, the names, <br>and my heart is the shrine of the moonrise and the dawn, <br>the blue honey hive of the stars and the wildflowers in their fields, <br>and the wind takes down what the mute rocks repeat for my sake, <br>and every face is a blossom or a leaf or an apple from the bough<br>of the orchard that seasons my emotions to advent and passage, <br>to the transformative oceans that drink to the bottom of themselves <br>and leave their empty cups on the moon to be filled again.<br> <br>I have within me a beginning and an end <br>that open like the wings of a single gate<br>I passed through long before the birth of time<br>like the prelude of a world I hadn't read yet<br>because I hadn't finished living it in tears and blood, <br>running my fingers over it like the tender braille of a breast, <br>lapping it like blood from my own skull to see what kind of drunk I was.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there are lifelines on the palms of everyone's hands<br>valleys, rivers, nerves, creases, roots, deltas, lightning<br>that together make a map to every dream I've ever lived, <br>all the tragedies and joys of fugitive spirits <br>trying to shoot the rapids with a broken oar, <br>and secrets that put a finger to the lips of the dead<br>like the horizontal threshold of a man who stands <br>like an infinite pause in the doorway of waking up<br>and just looks at himself with nothing special in mind, <br>a commotion of swallows in the radiant spoons of last night's rain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there's you now, who is not me, <br>because I long for you like a tide longs for its island, <br>and can find nowhere within myself the likeness of your face, <br>and though I know the water knows you like an ancient migration<br>it leaves no trace of your vines on the lips of its waves, <br>and there are skys where you shine among the stars for hours<br>where I've found threads of your shadow <br>torn on the thorns of the constellations<br>like rivers unravelled from your wilderness skin, <br>and even once I found your footprint like a boat on a beach<br>but you were not in it, and the emptiness was out of reach. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I think if I find you, if I look hard enough, <br>if I stare into space as still as a lizard or a telescope, <br>if I check every leaf the doves bring back in their beaks, <br>every eyelid of snow that lowers the pines into sleep, <br>and lace the wind with fragrant spells and tragic pleas, <br>if I can break the code of the rocks that ore their silver secrets<br>like love-letters, like poems, deep in the throat of the earth, <br>if I grow new eyes for the seeing from the oldest wines of my being, <br>and the sky has to turn black forever not to have you pale like a comet, <br>not to lose you like a chandelier of fireflies in a galaxy, <br>not to reach out and touch you like the creatrix of the creator, <br>I can part from this life like a gift I left in the night on the stairs.</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=476771" data-title="My Hands Were Once de Patrick White" data-description="My hands were once the afterlives of birds 
that caressed the cheeks of the sky
and brushed back the wind from its eyes, 
and took a finger to intercede with a tear
not to start a pilgrimage without a little laughter, 
and I am of the stuff of thr..."></div>
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