This light
Seems to smooth the skin over
And move me
Into the mysterious heaven.
There is a somewhere
Beyond this majesty.
So I am told
Deep into forests green
Like emeralds-shining.
So soft like a rolling hill
But more gentle than the valley.
And yet I owe nothing.
Not to gentility or nature.
Not to poor fumbling greed.
In all these bittersweet lies
I forget
The passions I need
And the imperfect regret.
This light
A Dead Language 