(11. Januar 2006)
Who can fathom thy beauty, o fair one?
Be not spoken of poets whose duty is to secrecy:
Trying, be it vainly, to find vowels that become
Words so fulfilled and thus utterly nigh thee.
My limbs stiffen, my breath being ice
Fair hoarfrost is tumbling downwards, shines like a knife,
Cuts into the blackness of my bowels making them splice!
Not ever a man been comparable to this alive.
The sight’s not eternal, but so is the beauty within,
A winter’s inferno is what makes eyes shed tears
For to touch thy white skin is to touch sacred sin
But pondered yonder in darkness by chance raises fears.
Poets might know better words to put beauty into light
But the brightest thou shinest in marvellous night.Poem archive