"The comb she holds is golden,
She sings a song as well
Whose melody binds an enthralling
And overpowering spell."
- Heinrich Heine, "Lorelai"
Lost in the passion and purity of a moment of silence
I sit transfigured by the murmurs of my heart.
Wishing for the fountain of life, I sense before me
The riddle of the Earth--the beginning of desire.
To start with a note or a word--how do I create
The beginning of my work of art--my end?
What is the feeling which suddenly strikes
Deep within my soul? Lacking awareness
I sit, trembling before the touch of his hand--
Merely the thought of it permeates my being.
Bound to the mast of desire I force
Myself to choose--to change.
We each speak from the core of our souls--drawing
on images created in moments of inspiration.
Our passion is informed by individual reasons.
Yet, do we really know of what we speak?
I sit, dumb within my solipsistic world--
A world dumb in its unreality, for
If it is dependent on will alone,
Whose will is it to be?
I sit, trembling at the faint remains
Of ghostly images--selves forgotten.
I am no longer. Who am I? Where do I go?
How do I move my body without the desire for what is?
I will conquer the tempter with silence.
Even as my burgeoning boldness grows I find
Through choice-- the source of desire within me.
Joy is the result of the victory.
- from Preludes of the Mind, 2012 (2007), James Henderson