O define the divine? It’s easy to do.
First, it has nothing to do with you;
You and I are friends, and we agree.
Disagreement is the secret to all divinity.
The one, who, I believe, is divine,
Owns everything which is wholly and entirely mine—
Because only confusion’s mine;
Doubt defines me and myself, in time.
I stroll to the end, I pretend to know.
I laugh and then laugh, but I don’t know.
I understand my misunderstanding in the past:
Because it and it went by too fast.
But this, which I do not know—
Is directly in front of me and goes so very slow.
I can look at it, and look at it, and still not understand.
She merely walks, and transforms the land.
She resembles, and does, what I hate—
But when I see her I never hate.
Always the unique, which escapes definition
Creates in us the uneasy, sickening premonition.
We turn our head; to escape, we casually flee,
And pray, “please don’t let this odd person speak to me!”
Whatever she is, I cannot define—
And this is why she is divine.
What I thought to do was never this.
To hate all kissing—and yet to kiss.
She’s the day before you love, the day
You don’t change your mind, the day
That is gone, and the final day
You agree because it would, but it won’t go away.
When she spoke it was speaking that was
Somehow dull and yet speaking because
It had to speak to me. I cannot define
This. It is what I like—and love.