Confession

Dedicated to Dr. Albert Badre

What is the chastity of thought, fortified on its summits,
in a stillness whose clarity burnishes its visions —
no murk of lusts clamoring across its expanse,
no trifles of the world profaning its lower slopes.

*

What chastity is there in the heart, despite the blood of youth,
or a desire that has driven out the petty desires
hovering over pleasures made of mirage —
it is the desire of the bountiful one who abstained from drink
and watered the soil of his country with the blessing of the clouds;
it is, deep within love, a wound and an outpouring
that quickens the seeds, freeing them from the barrenness of the soil.

*

What is the chastity of the aloof one whom the summits guard,
while weakness climbs them to me along with slumber:
images of the mean, despised yesterday,
and the phantom of her who bound my visions to the dust,
so that they tumbled down to lap at happiness, smeared with dirt.

Lord! Shall phantasy strike me down, as You see,
while the dream cuts me to pieces and lays bare what is hidden?
Lord, when shall I grow clear, and become pure in essence?
And when, when, Lord, shall I cast off the outward show
and rise in the horizons, a truth proclaimed,
building life into summits and living it as summits,
in my great waking and in the numbness of sleep?