I wrote a secret in a book, you said, it sounds like leaves of summer whispering in the grass.
I wrote a secret in a book, a piece of twisted light, you said it was strange like something Spanish Paques might write.
I wrote a secret in a book, a piece of glowing light, you said it whispers dreams and hymns and prayers and sacred things.
I wrote a secret in a book, a piece of curving light, you smiled and said, what is a secret if not a breath in the night, what is a secret, you said, if not god revealed in dreams and hymns and prayers and starry things.
I wrote a secret in a book that really was no secret at all just a piece of tired old light we don’t use to illuminate anymore, like a jewel hung at the edge of dawn, lifting high.
I can see the red sun rising in the heart of the rose like a jewel hung from a throat of stars in silence, in the heart of a rose.
I wrote a secret in a book. You said it was strange like something Spanish Paques might write of dreams and hymns and prayers and sacred starry things.