Your silence is the silence of stone walls,
Of empty rooms and empty mornings,
Of cold statues: angels poised for flight,
With eyes that do not see and lips that do not move,
Wings cloaked in ice, hands in frozen benediction.
In cloistered gardens these angels hold court,
Reigning over blossoms and mortals with cool satisfaction.
Here is such a garden, here are my helpless hands,
Scarred and broken, fistfuls of thorns.
Here in these dark pathways there is no law,
And brambles and serpents seize all control.
Here in this garden, you are as good as a god,
And your ivory hands point to the heavens, your dead white eyes
Do not blink or waver- these simple things
Move every force of life within my breast and I am
Ruled again. I do not even try to break free.