Oh my heart, my other self;
you who dwell in city or in desert,
or in the cathedral silence of forests,
or close by the sea’s great voice
which is my voice also,
you look up and wonder at my shining.
Do you ask yourself:
what keeps me fixed in the night?
Why do I not journey
like the white and journeying moon?
There surely is heaven enough
in which to move;
there surely is space enough
for me to arc across the dark
above your head.
And yet I remain in my appointed place,
your dependable star,
obedient to your own stillness,
as fixed in my place as you are in yours:
we two are as immobile as mountains.
Perhaps you imagine
that if you remain in your place
then you always can find me;
you look up, and there I shall be:
we two are as predictable as the tides.
And then one night you move.
For the first time you dare
to take a single step,
and wonder of wonders:
I take that step with you.
You begin to walk, you move:
and I move with you.
And so your step becomes a journey,
and I journey with you
towards some promise,
some appointed destiny
some assignation rich with moment
for you and all who journey with you
towards your secret-bright redemption.
But wonder of wonders:
for the whole time you have been travelling
it is I who have remained in my appointed place:
it is you, my heart, who have been journeying;
and still you always can find me,
and I shall be with you
at your secret-bright redemption.
Illustration by Edmund Dulac, from the book The Stealers of Light by the Queen of Roumania