SomeWheRe I hAvE nEvEr TrAveLLeD,
gLadLy bEyOnD



Somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are the things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near


your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Springs opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose


or if your wish be close me, i and
mylife will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;


nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing


(i do not know what is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of yoyr eyes is deeper than alll roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.


-->Edward Estlin Cummings<--