Unfinished Poem
Only with words
have I drawn a portrait of my love.
I consider it:
it's her, exactly. All that's missing are earrings for her delicate ears.
Let dictionaries be proud,
let them enlarge,
let them be adorned with thousands of pretty words.
What can they be worth
when they lack a word
that can be fashioned into her earrings?
I am Job
my hope will not bend;
this word obsesses me
and I will reach it sooner or later -
on the wings of the Simmurgh, if I must -
span by span will I search the sky;
if it slips underground,
I'm the one to unearth it.
It is a word and I will find it,
even if the soles of my feet blister and split.
And, if it cannot be found,
I will invent it:
my love will have her earrings, come what may!