I have seen that certain things be
Willed yet Fate will not consent.
What moods have been sent me are
Nearly-not mine own, but Time's, who
Only holiday in this encrusting flesh.
I'll not challenge and will I'll not
Control blessings that seem as curses,
So allow'd meagre pleasure in the storm.
And be they not moods but questions,
Set me not to them with ink, but as
Hildegard the ecstatic, upon sable wax,
And over various heatings of the soul,
The script will change, so will the gouges
Grow and growéth out with life.
Be not cold, my soul, wanderer of the
Dawn wind, for then the marks ever
Will remain, but decadent, less-life.
Not lost, and yet is lossless doomed
To die unchanged. Warmth is life and
Giveth out some vital moisture to the air.
My soul! By loosing loses not, but grows
Through space and time, and reaching past
The first orb, a head, into that greater
Orb of earth and all, which doth contain
All other souls who pray to, like me,
Be in the world, not out. Out of my head,
In that orb of other heady orbs, will
Hildegard herself and the tentacles of ecstasy