For all these years—
has it been a hundred yet,
you’ve slept in a tower
high above the world.
No one could crawl through these thorns,
these vines,
these obstacles
to wake you.
I’ve come before–
not even knowing you–
and stood here by this wall,
looking up,
straining for some way to penetrate
these brambles,
this thick grass,
these wild thorns
and wake you
and hear the world sing
hey-nonney-nonney
once again.
But each time I come,
I turn away,
knowing there are spells
that can’t be broken,
that wounds must heal in their own way,
that the sharpness of that spindle,
that needle’s pain long ago,
and the rage that poisons
such fragile lives and causes sleep–
such a sleep
that only time can wake–
is more than this poor prince can bear.
And so,
I turn to go.
Perhaps, I’ll come again, one day
and look up at your tower
high above the world
and see the pigeons on the roof fly off
and roses growing in the yard
and I’ll climb the narrow stairs
and kiss you.
