What body burns imperfect, soul
neither wick or oil flares ecstatic here;
the night-swan's wing glows visible on dark,
thick surfaces- oh, the wanting student climbs
through air, eloquently, a good, sophisticated creature.
Ask not, what body tries to live, but what
it strives to gain. Who can tell you this-
the long, lone shaded flight in rain, labor
through the cloud and light, an angel as its language
spills through fire, confusing every guest inside.
If we speak in tongues, if soul is hidden silently
inside its shell, if sound and word are far removed
from wisdom let us distinguish luminosity
of eye, a voice, a shadow from the depths
of our body-bound, soul-less hell.
