Henrik Nordbrandt: 'Our love is like Byzantium'

Our love is like Byzantium

Our love is like Byzantium

must have been like

that final evening. There must have been

I imagine

a glow over the faces

of those who crowded in the streets

or stood in small groups

on street corners and squares

talking in subdued voices

it must have been reminiscent

of the glow your face has

when you stroke your hair back from it

and look at me.

I imagine they did not speak

very much, and of quite

indifferent matters,

that they attempted to speak

and came to a halt

without having said what they wanted to

and tried once again

and gave up once again

and looked at each other

and looked down.

Very old icons, for example,

have that glow about them

like the glow of a fire in a burning town

 or the glow approaching death

leaves on photographs of those who died early

in the memory of those left behind.

When I turn towards you

in bed, I have the feeling

of entering a church

that was destroyed by fire

long ago

and where only the darkness in the icons’ eyes

still remains

full of the flames that obliterated them.