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av Erling Røhmer.


What I did not know I'd waited for's arrived:

My sense of smell, of sight, of touch – revived!

It took just one brief glance into Your soul,

For me to of my future lose control...


So hear! –


I feel here at the brink of a new start,

Marked by the new dimensions of my heart;

Given a fresh tongue with which to taste old shapes,

Like sweet wine dearly pressed from Muscat grapes.


Speaking as I do from its intoxication:

I say: ‘Your gaze acquits all of Creation!’


For this thing that stirs in me – this most profound mystique –

Must surely be what poets hint at when they speak

Of Truth, and Faith, and all such known Unknowns,

Which language strives to capture in its tones.


...surely it must...


But oh!


My lines – no doubt too quick, messy and marred –

Spill out with such wild joy and disregard;

I want so much to show what I have found,

But know my lines will just spin round and round...


round and round... your distant face....


Yet I hope that my rough words may give a gleam

Of what I see when I recall my dream:

In which You hid, then – spotted, I was sure You’d flee,

But instead You met me, asking: ‘Are you running from Me?’


And I confessed that I had always run,

So certain that behind there was no one;

But You were there all this time, searching for me, like I did You.

I prick my finger, douse my face: I still Believe that It is True.

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