quarta-feira, 2 de junho de 2010

The Sunrise Compelleth Me

"Why do I love" You, Sir?

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—
And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
I love Thee—

Emily Dickinson

See, they are so predictable to me, my words.
My words are - extensions of me, tedious, if I might say so.
In rare moments do they exceed me and transcend, show me - unpredictable.
ABLE, DICTable, PREdictable, UNpredictable, talk about prefixes.
But in most moments, my words
are so predictable, enauseatingly obvious.
why must they be written, I wonder, my words
if they sometimes smell of soot, or sawdust
and run up my nose, making me sneeze
or making you sneeze
why do I love you, sir?

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