To the Palace of Love

Take me

to the Palace of Love

before the Taj

where I can dip my feet in the long fountain

and close my eyes, and kneel and pray, and play

the sitar to the gods.

To the palace

where memory is a promise

—a breathing, burning promise—

blending with life,

perpetually unfulfilled.

Take me where incense manifests its wisdom

in the dark room,

growing

like an unfinished shadow,

like a serpent

entangled in the air

interrupted by the movement of a hand,

where I may see

what you've seen

through other eyes.

The marble hides the features

not yet sculpted

by the lover's chisel,

imagining a face

buried four hundred years ago.

I want to see that face.

And I want to forget all other faces.

I'll bid farewell

with pity

from some window

to those who dare not realize

that love was always worth

the vow to love till death;

to die till love, till life:

to love

till life do us part,

till death bring us together.

I'll leave my death outside

—the one I wore

while living—,

my scabs as souvenirs,

and the walls of the palace

as my testament.

Now

take me

to the Altar of Love,

and take my life:

I'll keep dragging my suffering around

until I lie

where there are no more names,

no dates,

no history,

no pain,

and what is left is naked flesh in silence

offering Love its beauty

in spite of time.