Where we are travelling
we must go hand in hand--
like in a movie, on a cliff
above a treacherous sea.
We can’t lose our grip
for if I let go or you let go
there are just the rocks and the water.
That is what it feels like:
We do not need to talk about it,
we are riveted on the height,
We are too afraid of letting go,
or worse, only one letting go
--one turning back, who may fall anyway.
But the silence is poison. I can feel
your heart across the gloom
and the chill when you glance at me:
Does she know she is my death?
or will she retain this mask after the climb--
after we round the last track
to the Promised Land, with damp grass underfoot--
And the sea a calm harbor of lapping waves
and the seagulls while question marks in the sky--
where mountains spread into flatland
and there are cottages and beds with pillows--
For that, we hold hands and keep moving.