by Rafael Posada

In my actions there is a secret meaning.
In the surface of my thoughts I have played the feelings (such colours!),
Danced the verbs and steered the light.
In the bright exterior all is the same, as if cut down.
My true wishes rest in the shadow,
Holding the pain of theatre at bay,
As if waiting for a golden moment.

In my actions there is a secret.
To my every thought I whisper of you,
You are my sound,
The true meaning of my words.
I have turned my thinking into a museum of you.

In my actions there is a pattern.
It is weaved into my everythingness;
In the halls of my mind you are my beacon,
Your joy is the garden of my devotion.

In my actions there is only you.
Your face is contemplation and your smile a gallery of pleasure,
Your touch is an alchemy of the senses;
An intaglio of memoirs that dissuades the flow of time.

Now there are no secrets
Only an arpeggio of hope.
Know that each day you are my first word (my sunrise), and my last.

—

June, 2014. Ashmolean Museum, Oxford