CYBELE

CYBELE

Watching from my window.
Watching the street at night.
My defenceless doors were open.
My wings were closing tight.

My defeated army turned to light,
and a piece of me reached its full height.

I was a climber when I met you,
that is what made you pursue.
My arms were wide when you first leapt.
My climbing stopped and soon you wept.

The sun has set,
and she sleeps in my hands.

She was perfumed by the fisher king,
who gave her strings to pull a ring.
A ring that would but linger
upon her touching finger.

A finger which would point and bring
a life well lived without a ring.

Why a ring to stop a sin?
Why a ring to let me in?

To be independent.
To be secure.
To live without company—
and what is more,
to be cherished for what you are,
without having to walk too far.
Or to stand in corners in the night
without carrying a light.