Clasped within the light, loose hand of uncertainty
I am scattered to aimlessly slip through these fingers,
like cremated ashes being left to disintegration
I am strewn and drifting above your body's ridges,
canyons carved by tributaries of your elusive pristine
water pools, where your storms of the past collect
and create the veil of condensation that turns my breath
into raindrops falling, forming streams to try and reach you,
still they bend and fall away from your water's depth
that would provide the well where confusion cleanses clear,
my wind and snow and rain and snow and wind and rain
would fall each season's cycle, against your aging face of fear.
Poor is the life that misses
The Lovers greatest treasure
Which end in endless pleasure.
O, then, if this be so,
Shall I a virgin die?
Fie no, no, no, fie no, no, no!
Michael East (1580-1648)