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Transit Zone by Martin Burke         < back : index : next >   

S t a i n e d

In the way that fruit has stained my hands
nulltrangifbeauty has stained my eyes

wherever I look the evidence overwhelms me
nulltrangifto the point of exhaustion

whatever I touch opens up, as Rumi says,
nulltrangifworlds within worlds within worlds

why then do I flounder in the midst of it all?

Why do the stone and the shell and the pine-cone
nulltrangifspeak of limitations?

These are the contradictions of the world
nulltrangifI inhabit

where what can be celebrated is not what can be

but must be lived with and embraced.

So, my voice will wither in its singing
nulltrangifbut from unknowing or praise?

Who can know, who can determine the end
nulltrangifof all things?

It does not matter, the longevity of beauty is without

and it is enough that I am stained m this manner
nulltrangiffreely acknowledging

that whether I sing or stumble or fall
nulltrangifsuch beauty is my burden and my blessing.

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