Two cups, when empty, collide with a strong,
all-piercing sound, clear like the sky when one dreams of it,
but when the cups are full, their sound is muted,
deep and dark, and it takes greater force to make them sing.
A small bell with a loose apple-like tongue
swings and tolls effortlessly on its cedar beam,
but a heavy bell, saturated with precious silver,
refuses to disturb its perfect, ether-polished core.
When our love was light, young and still empty,
our words poured out and our exclamations awoke
all the slumbering spirits of this transient age.
But now our love is full, well shaped and complete,
reluctant to express itself, loath to let in anything,
perfected to a stillness that almost resembles death.