She that Is and Was

With the exchange of books and words, letters and voice she is the atmosphere that centers in the chaotic of reality. The carving of lands has begun in contours and silhouette of peninsulas, mountains, lakes and ponds. In the evening she would speak in a foreign tongue with foreign sounds. A Celtic melody harmonizing the air captures it in its space. She that is, is known before me, somewhere she is known to some hands, seen by some eyes and made into their earth in molded clay. In Victorian age, the wavering of her hat and her language speak only of Abelard and Heloise, of Browning and Austen, of Keats and Blake, of Wordsworth and Tennyson. A time when she is the muse of someone, the texture of some shade, the eloquent of some thoughts she is the land that has been found. In minutes she has found me with her foreign tongue.

With eyes lost some years ago, she has found a nomad wandering through a sea of people trying to find themselves in verses. In countries never before known, never before heard, never before there, she is their border, their image in a silhouette of beauty. She is the ship docking in her wandering before time, before the wind guide her to land. An Albatross silently watches over her in her travel.

She has found the shores without footprints. She has found the shores with despair and silence. Conversing only in that tone the Bard yearns for. Among them life began. Among them ruins have been found by man.

Before then I am not in her sight. I am not in her syncopation. I do not speak her language. I do not understand them. She comes with her nakedness and beauty. She that is has wandered into my spacious being. She, that is, sails into the wind of my land. It is as if each coast are bound to one another, each port fit one another. As if the caressing of land and sea permeated in their distant longing.

She, that is, have come into existence again. She is born again and adored with the elegance of broken emotions, of broken chest. She that is wanders no longer in distance until she becomes she that was.

Lost in time some ages ago with each unity, consuming one another as if tomorrow never came, as if the night walked itself into eternity. Yet yesterday arrived without notice as it was not longer today. She came and went like the night, like the silence of voice murdering thoughts, like the earth craving the dawn and morning craving the sunset. She disappeared into a distance before my eyes could reach her, before my hands could grasp her. It was too soon when the wind stole her voice and her presence. That she had returned to that loss where she came from. She had returned to that space, broken and desolate. In the winter breeze she blew away. In a moment of thought time consumed her again, time carried her to another shore. And I was not there. I was not there. She that was left footprints for me to remember. She that was touched the land with her flesh and spoke to the earth. She, that was, was lost again. She had died once more in her death. She that was lingers aimlessly.

Yesterday did not remember her with its time. Tomorrow had arrived too soon and gone too late. Tomorrow whispered her away in the night before my eyes could remember, before my touch could recognize them. She, that was, was no longer present.

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