Here I am in the house again
hiding behind doors,
reading books,
all the poetry of San Juan de la Cruz
poet-saint, prisoner, exile
tortured, tormented, disbelieved, persecuted
yet somehow the words,
a strange fountain of hope:
Apártalos, amado, que voy de vuelo …
Look away, beloved, I’m going to fly …
and these words:
A las aves ligeras,
leones, ciervos, gamos saltadores,
montes, valles, riberos,
aguas, aires, ardores,
y miedos de las noches veladores …
O birds on easy wings,
lions, stags, leaping fallow deer,
mountains, valleys, shores,
waters, winds, passions,
and terror in the watchful nights …
and these words, strangest of all
strangely easy to understand:
Saber no sabiendo …
To know without knowing …
To know without knowing
a life filled with dreams
heaven unseen
strange faith, strangely real
strangely mysterious fountain of words
source of hope
So I let my mind fly
free thoughts lifting, unseen
up, up, up to the inviting
unknown