and this moment is gone...

you've taken it for what it is worth.
you've taken it for the architect of epochs, for what is granted
in that time. you look, doubtingly, at the duty of your own shelter,
at nothing more than refuge (not even what is known about the self).
they say, you "will live to an old age if you do not see
your own attraction". they feed you with love and other versions of despair.
you do not flinch. your passion is immune to the birth of a different story.
you are a body fashioned out of clay... your likeness evokes a bottomless lake,
dolphins, worms, and the victory of a daughter's handshake.
if a god or goddess abandoned you the darkest spider would not let
you hang. the unarmed mortality of "this moment", what they might call
"asking the heavens for a joyous vengeance", would see you into hiding,
into a forest or a sea, into a pocket of unopposed air... and you,
taking everything for what it is worth,
would transfer the weight of bones and fleece, golden anthems,
and you would build blossoms of fragrant silk, veins that splash
like a waterfalls' circumference. you would leave no vague uncertainty,
your charm would revolve like an endless planet...
because of the narrow path between orbits you would inherit
a mother's greatest affliction. your beauty would never suffice.
cities, towns, and revolutions would degrade
the sin of a stone monument. a thunderbolt
would show no sign of jealousy. an inscription would read,
"she has punished me for having claimed to have loved her".

*** --- directed at no-one in particular --- ***