My funny valentine,
what do you do?
Where do you go in time?
Where then can one drown,
and whisper to the water –
if all directions’ songs
sound from above,
there’s nowhere to sink.
Where are you and what am I
to bear repulsion from your eye?
Is it, as mine are, set ablaze?
To me, your anger is a haze.
Feelings are profoundly changed?
Where is the softness of your gaze?
Perhaps in hours’ time I’ll know.
I hope it is a phase.
I do not want to disappear,
or die or lay, or leer
I want your love
I want you near.
Gate is a strange name for a boy, and perhaps even stranger for a man of modest proportions and a misty gaze. But that is the name nonetheless. It goes without saying that Gate goes without saying, and his name accompanies him without ever being said. Sunlight keeps constant and sole company in wanderings about the island of a dwelling, with Sand and Stone who never leave the inaccessible sea-shore blanketing them with unloving waves of turquoise and hissing foam.
It so happens that Gate has come to question both the name and the existence thereof, and will soon ask about the purpose of a name which is never spoken.
“It is useful”, says, “to have an address to one’s self.”
But you see, Gate’s not a man.
It is just a metaphor.
Though it’s surely not of haste,
I’m not too sure what it is for.
Here’s something that say I can
here’s my heart, you’re at its fore
There’s no treasure worth more than,
being with you on our shore.