chagall backdrop

Beloved,

you write of the white statues
in the gardens of midnight
alabaster darkened
in the weak rays of stars
overhead in cold skies

where a kiss is like a petal
torn from just above the thorn
but before the bud
with only a hint
of the bouquet
and the promise

and we twirl
and we twirl
and we twirl
madly under moons
that are merely satellites
escorts for the real
who are meant to die in one’s stead
should it be necessary

who knows what’s need
in everything
there is no exception
to the rule

a tear on cold steel
warms the blade
if only ever so slightly

and we laugh
and we cry
and we die
sadly in our finest hours
since this is all there is
that we have

we know what’s beyond
it’s what’s here
that we’ll need to conceive

© Chagall, 2013