Sing something, the voice said.
It was so soft I barely noticed
as it ruffled the pensive quite of early morning
(pebbles in a pond).
What should I sing? Suddenly I was unsure if I slept or dreamt.
Something for the night, for the quiet, something just for the two of us.
Do you think we’re alone? I asked, musing.
Are we? he said.
I didn’t respond, just kissed him,
feeling the sweetness of his hands
that were used to holding books.
I sat up.
The notes came first, the words later –
into the stillness that lay all around us
in the streets and alleyways between buildings,
into the spaces where light from the stars couldn’t yet reach.
(Shy as a bride, the Sabbath had withdrawn from the city hours ago,
leaving only three stars to give birth to a new week).
That night was special –it belonged to us –
yet that unnamable quality of her definition
had already slipped away into another world.
And so I used the melody of the six days,
(those set apart from the last).
Bless the ineffable name of blessing,
That one is blessed!
He listened; he didn’t say a word.
He stood beside me as if seeing the individual notes hanging
On the tapestry of night around us, the night whose death only we had witnessed.
Suddenly I marveled that the world would come into being again –
Whether I slept or woke in the hours of darkness
The sun would rise again;
Whether we stayed or parted, love would not be forgotten.
I dried my cheeks gently as the last echoes of song
faded into the maze of concrete around us,
wishing for an eternity.