Sub-rosa

 
Tempered glass is my existence; I touch it
with sallowed tips and my breath is Theophany.
A weeping woman hides behind pained glass.

Capturer of my sight, she sees in shades of grey,
wearing the moon and stars like fine regalia.
She is strange to me.

Her sadness is a quiet glade on winter nights.
And as I delve timidly into the timeless depths of her, I see.
She whispers ancient secrets with abstract lips
and lilting resonance.

I know not of God or Goddess; I know not of birth of man.
But this I know: our fate has joined us hand in hand
and when moonlight saturates Cimmeria's veils,
we are, perhaps, sub-rosa; we are sine nomine.