by Zinta Aistars
(Portrait of Zinta by Viestarts Aistars)
We speak quietly of the dreams dreamt
but by harsh morning light – gone.
We speak of the wonder of innocence,
that sharp intake of breath
when first you see pale naked flesh,
press palm to breast, sip nectar
between parted lips, whisper
promises into the pulsing shadow -
there, at the base of her neck.
Was there a first time?
Now it seems fool’s gold,
a mirage that beckons
but shimmers ever one step
beyond the one you take.
Young, you longed for the wine
of experience, of knowledge,
of accumulated victory –
the more, the better.
Older, you long for the balm
of a single truth, one fine oasis
in the endless desert
that withstands your shadow,
how very close you stand,
breathing it in and it you,
and you no longer caring
about all that you will never know.
At last, it is enough.
It is enough.