Pleiade.

what weft sonnet can free my captive heart?
what treasure troved & mazed from the word hoard
lift, where the celestial dove has soared,
eyes exalted where heavens open part

the weaver´s loom of warp & woof woven?
such sonnet in every tone an image
mnenomonic, beatific turned page,
as aurora, as a flower open.

in the deepest night, in the steepest climb,
captive yet across still borders of time,
sealed within this too frail human frame

all creature mine, their pain, their been, their fall
catharsised here not without blame,
we are too poor not to be immortal.*

* Jorge Luis Borges

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2004
All rights reserved.
Peiade