with me for the pestle
my hands are tightly gripping
knowing time is slipping
where I cannot ever find it,
put it in the mortar, grind it,
milk that time for all it's worth,
before with tears it's spilt to earth.
You let me cry and dry
the tears beneath my eyes.
My sight is slowly finding
love so bright it's blinding.
I can't see time that's been wasted.
It's all been worth what I have tasted:
milk and honey spoken sweet,
resting, grounded, at your feet.
Inspired by this cuadro by Velázquez, "Cristo en casa de Marta y María."
No comments:
Post a Comment