Revision
The surface of the pond is mute—a dull glass of no opinion,
wrinkles blur to ripples.
You remain fair, as the distant moon is fair
cold as the latticework of stars.
I hang in this same spot, where your sliced hands
smashed to shards my brother.
Your face is the dawn’s light:
cheekbones rise like mountains,
skin soft as freshly fallen…Truth
is a luxury, an icy sliver
searching for the heart.
You are fair as the frost
that kisses the windowpane.
Truth walks a path of shattered glass.
You are the fairest of them all—
a red poppy opening
to the sun
in a land without snow,
snow, snow.
Original
The surface of the pond is mute, a dull glass—
of no opinion,
each wrinkle seen as a ripple.
You remain fair, as the distant moon
is fair, cold
as the latticework of stars.
Yet, I hang by your sliced hands
in this same spot.
Where once lay the shards of my brother.
Your face is the dawn’s light:
cheekbones rise like mountains,
skin soft as freshly fallen…Truth
is a luxury.
an icy sliver
searching for the heart.
You are fair as the frost
that kisses the windowpane. Truth
walks a path of shattered glass.
You are the fairest of them all—
the blooming rose
in sultry summer,
in a land without snow,
snow, snow.
The surface of the pond is mute—a dull glass of no opinion,
wrinkles blur to ripples.
You remain fair, as the distant moon is fair
cold as the latticework of stars.
I hang in this same spot, where your sliced hands
smashed to shards my brother.
Your face is the dawn’s light:
cheekbones rise like mountains,
skin soft as freshly fallen…Truth
is a luxury, an icy sliver
searching for the heart.
You are fair as the frost
that kisses the windowpane.
Truth walks a path of shattered glass.
You are the fairest of them all—
a red poppy opening
to the sun
in a land without snow,
snow, snow.
Original
The surface of the pond is mute, a dull glass—
of no opinion,
each wrinkle seen as a ripple.
You remain fair, as the distant moon
is fair, cold
as the latticework of stars.
Yet, I hang by your sliced hands
in this same spot.
Where once lay the shards of my brother.
Your face is the dawn’s light:
cheekbones rise like mountains,
skin soft as freshly fallen…Truth
is a luxury.
an icy sliver
searching for the heart.
You are fair as the frost
that kisses the windowpane. Truth
walks a path of shattered glass.
You are the fairest of them all—
the blooming rose
in sultry summer,
in a land without snow,
snow, snow.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson