What beauty is this?
So lacking in mystery
That I could be home.
Indeed, with only these clothes
and this striking sentiment:
“Everywhere you go here,
the people are real.”
What beauty is this?
So steeped in history
As if to be alive with it.
Here, where the buildings wear their
bricks like skins
and a simple coat of paint
does well as an elegant
Saturday night ensemble.
This beauty
has a simple elegance.
Such that keeps the eyes a wandering.
Here, where sidewalks are for feet
and faces are for greeting.
What beauty!
What beauty is this?
Such, that the tears well up
in remembrance of the family
I once left
and now returned, I’ve heightened vigor
for this place, for those I’ve missed.
My sweetest sister,
the solemn streets which dampen
my cheeks with a kiss.
A fond hello.
A welcome home.
My darling brother,
the trumpet’s call, a strong arm,
a warm embrace.
As if to say, I’ve missed you.
I’ll always love you and protect you.
My perfect mother, my perfect father,
the cozy houses rising up beside each other.
Saying very comfortably: A love like this
will last forever.
And they engulf me, and they surround me,
but they do not
bind me.
What is this beauty?
What dare lay such a permanent
yet subtle claim on perpetuity?
What resists death, only to resurrect
itself in funeral shroud?
A witness bears his testimony as duty.
A scribe, his duty as art.
A poet writes as perception dictates.
The building is her witness,
her eyes, her ears.
The pen is her master.
What is this beauty?
So plump with amnesty
I feel I am at long last and finally free.
Indeed, with only this pen
and this glass for company.
The girl in this picture wrote this poem on that day in that book.
Excellent.