Some write poetry for peace,
Some write poetry to get excited.
She’s the one I love! The only one I’ve ever loved!
See where the moon smoothly joins my cause,
And now the night sky is the moon’s best friend.
And look at her face! I don’t know how this is going to end.
Some write poetry for meditation and calm,
Others write poetry for the leaping light
Which paints with fires the lawns and lanes.
She loves me, with or without poetry. But she refrains.
And yet I have such allies in the fight:
The loyal moon sneaking through lines of clouds,
The scents of flowers amassing in the night,
Hordes of sable words against sheets of silver dawn gathering,
Even at this impending hour, soothing the partisan crowds.
Do you hear me shouting this? Do you hear me writing this?
This was written as coldly and silently as a kiss.
How is it now with her and I? Does the summer answer? Do we
Have treaties and declarations yet? I’ll bargain for her tomorrow;
Breathing slowly, I march through the flowers; I charm my enemies easily.
Tomorrow, negotiating with every dim shape, I find peace. Peace is easy—
Even if tomorrow means revenge, or she, in public, fills me with sorrow.