Young Poet

The grinning clamour on your face Dies abruptly, for moments: Boldness and timidity Are swept, transfigured, against each other. But the glistening turmoil Once more spurns itself with jests That light its troubled hands. When too much pain has lowered The eyelids of your mood, A peaceful humour wraps your face. You are like an old man Watching children fly from his fingertips. In your kirtle of borrowed skies You find a sorrow luring your horizons Into hesitating brightness. . . . When night remembers, you have straightened Into stealthy, angry calmness Fingering it first, unsent arrow.