Melancholia

Melancholia

A drop in the pool breaks the mirror;
when many drops fall, the pool becomes a mountain range,
pale shards biting the thickness of the air
as a spirit passes over the face of the waters.

What bell beckons the rivers to rise?
Does it hang within the mortal’s mind, or is it fixed
in the circles of Heaven?
Who wields the fell hammer?
The dragons of the heart hear,
stir, turn, gnaw.

The mountains slide down, filling the abysses
which are my eyes—
they pierce the future no more.
The devouring angel murmurs through violent lips
that where the indurate fabric is eaten away
a new organism increases
within an annealing soul.

The night is dark and close;
the wind accuses with its discordance.
I pull the hood over my face
and step into the convulsing waters,
for the bridge to the land of Zion
is the grim, felicitous,
death-white breaker.

Lord, if it be thou,
bid me come unto thee on the water.

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