The Woman In White Said – 6. About Joy



Joy is a clothing,

velvet-pouch from head to toe,

sliky ruffle, shoe-tip,

a moth’s wing covers it,

the worm of the night chews it, tears it,

it’ll be torn into nothing, if I don’t find it.

It’s back is wonder-stole,

it’s front is strumming chickadee,

it’s string is tinckler bell,

it’s belt is a jingling hush-screw,

it’s side is a slippery oak-leaf,

it’s tuft is a dangling crickett-antenna,

it’s patch is a kiss-lace,

it’s button is a striped cherry.

Zap! I’ve put it on me:

the sari is a dripping pearl-drop,

the whole thing is all a white fog!


Joy is a pollen,

it has no beginning or end, it’s circular,

one cannot get a hold on it’s sour cherry stem,

it’s rotating on, waiting to be broken,

in a white, tubby globe.

I twirl the marble, it’s mine!

And if I would dare to… I dare!

Look, it’s cracking, it’s broken,

the storm lashes out,

noone can lock it back again!

Nettle-stream, shrewd shrub

gurgles on a sodden lavender-vapour.

Either I let it felicitate the whole world,

or I suck the spicy fragrance into my lungs…

Zapp! A moment, and it’s swirling inside me,

the whole thing is all a white smoke!

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