Maverick Mist

Blake
Jorge Luis Borges

Where will the rose in your hand exist
that lavishes, without knowing, intimate gifts?
Not in colour, because the flower is blind,
nor in the sweet inexhaustible fragrance,
nor in the weight of the petal. Those things
are sparse and remote echoes.
The real rose is more elusive.
Perhaps a pillar or a battle
or a firmament of angels, or an infinite
world, secret and necessary,
or the joy of a god we will not see
or a silver planet in another sky
or a terrible archetype lacking
the form of the rose.

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