The following is a rewording / reworking of a poem with the same name by Fernando Pessoa, the great Portuguese poet of the first half of the twentieth century. I sometimes like to take the theme and original structure of another work and allow its culture and form to shape something new.
It begins to be going to be day -
the red sky is pregnant
in a still black night
greying with delight
to feel its chill twist
there, where fear and hate is thinning
A void that is crimson-hoping
expansive, somehow, gliding
from where zen masters sleep
their selfless sleep, free of form
and a wireless mantra watches,
poised, barely conceived
And yet, I who have hardly
sung, don't feel space or time
or, though it's giving birth, dawn's now
from the empty silence.
The indefinite of the moment,
It's stillness, all I feel.
In vain the day is yawning
to one who can't breathe, always
was made to rise up straight
here in the non-heart;
who, without living, is not dying
and, when he loves, does not know it.
In vain? No, no, ask the sky
lip red kissing through to scarlet lust
is it this soul sky feels? Not
me, nor you, not even life,
in this dying night, soon to be unseen.