The bride of the world
Wears vermillion on her forehead
At an eternal stalemate with her husband,
Who is sensate, yet illusory.
Within her reach and yet wildly without,
Incomprehensible.
She darkens the rims of her eyes,
so no one can tell she spent yet another
night in tears.
Wears vermillion on her forehead
At an eternal stalemate with her husband,
Who is sensate, yet illusory.
Within her reach and yet wildly without,
Incomprehensible.
She darkens the rims of her eyes,
so no one can tell she spent yet another
night in tears.
The bride of the world has
a snakelike silver anklet,
The instrument of her betrothal,
and incarceration.
Someday she might fall in love,
and her heart might bind her instead.
That day, she will take
her anklet off and shatter it to pieces.
The bride of the world covers her hair,
With a dusky red veil.
Her mane is demure.
She waits on the threshold
Yet another sunset, searching for consummation.
The twilight wanes by,
And her beloved does not return.
She will await him, with her coiffure undone,
and her hair untamed.
The bride of the world looks into the mirror,
She sees an endless beauty,
And a limerence dark.
She sees her lips painted red,
She hears his voice
from the other side of the door;
She wakes up from her dream.
She sees the single jewel on her crown,
She feels her earrings weigh her down.
The bride of the world does not know
Why her husband left her ages ago.
All she will do is show,
the constance of her love, as inconstant
as his might have been.
She will grow more perfect each day.
Her devotion more divine,
A priestlike serenity
set alight by her longing.
The bride of the world
Will rise at dawn tomorrow.
She will run her delicate lotus-hands
On their conjugal bed.
She will smell him on her pillow.
She will cook his favorite meal,
With her delicate lotus-hands.
She will sit by the window,
Looking for the faintest trace of rising dust,
Hearing for a trampled twig, or a knock on the door.
She will watch the rain as it exhausts itself,
And bid the clouds, and her hope,
Farewell.