Your Air

If you were here now beside me in this bed, I would put my arm in a ring again around your shoulders and myself to you I would cling. You slowly, slowly your sleepy eyelids would open, and your gaze from between two soft half-open lids, like two lovely lanterns through the vague misty haze would shine on me and wander over my face; your lips your smile to my gaze would give as a gift: to my gaze and to me... My lips I would slide over your shoulder and the air of your body with deep breaths I would drink; and again I would fall asleep my head on your chest. Now perhaps I would see a boat leaning on the breast of a stormless sea in the golden haze of noon, or perhaps I would see a cradle of reeds in the soft rocking of the blue air... And now my breaths would already be mingled with your breaths and the breaths of time calm and deep. From beside the white linen of the curtain the yellow light of Shahrivar has shone into the room, has filled the table. If you were here together we would see the glass full of this day's diamonds, and beside the glass – on the table – the grape left behind from last night's bunch, together we would see that it is now filled with the golden juice of the sun. I again, once more, would drink the air of your body; I would cling to you and you, again, would fill brimming and full my grape and my glass: I would hear my own breaths loud, so loud from the corridor of time – through the haze – coming out, joining the long breaths of today and mingling with your breaths – across the borders across all these borders – in the sobs of this unbelieving weeping of mine like now – in place of the bed's breast – on your breast...