About Blank

For Emily Dickinson

A blank mail sent to you to let
you know that I did not forget–
this is what it is, my dear:
a confession composed in fear.

The lonely earth rises in pain
as an obeying mountain.
The streams entertain tarrying
to give expression to dying.

Yes, all such vain and lovely thought
is conspired to come to nought.
A blank mail sent to you it is;
the title forgotten with ease.

Not the count of drops in oceans,
not numbers of time’s gyrations–
None can scale the scope of the words
in which, broken, I am murmured.

I am all over you, I swear,
like pollen carried in the air.
I swear by this blank mail, indeed,
that you and only I can read:

If the unsaid is not expressed,
again this mail shall be addressed, 
till you will know for sure that I,
the greatest, am too great to cry.


~ by Bombadil on August 17, 2009.

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