Walking Wind

In me a calling that can't be quelled
a terrifying intensity
of which malefic mountains are felled.

I want to breathe
the air that you breathe.

Let our lungs be joined
in a Holy Matrimony.
That even the full-white moon,
with its twinkled stars and blazing sun,
shall turn a dark green with envy.

Away with the desire,
of fresh mountain air
and the salty sea breeze
of Greek beaches.
What words I give
To this grave and distinct
impulse I have to dare,
to insult,
the infantile fascinations of gutter-papers
and dead summer leaves
With the movement of the inner-city smog.

Let the four winds desire our breath
And let them, not us,
be slaves to instinct.

Pray that others see in us
the great hurricane of love
and not the proud gale of idle obsession
of neediness and personal possession

A pure love - that is as natural
As rivers for the lake
And flames to the fire
As rivers to oceans
And fire to flames.
As winds that blow East can blow West
And as cold winds of the North
Can blow the humid steam of the South

Are we not, my dear,
but the one and very same
With the Above and Beyond?
Do we not find love both at the open
as well as at the close?
Think it not desolate or morose
but living and true
You with me
and I, with you.

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