My loved one sleeps and softly just respires,
A strange and intricate consort of cells.
Each does exactly what it most desires,
In love with all its neighbors, like matched bells.
We never understood that odd command
To love each other—wanted it to hurt,
Thought that a serious god must needs demand
Some warping sacrifice to cleanse the dirt,
Remembered all that interesting pain
That we inflicted, others laid on us,
The rage for justice, sacred and profane,
The healing torment of the blasphemous—
When all it meant was that we should be happy,
For who is happiest but he or she
Who, solemn, giddy, shocked, or downright sappy
Delights that she or he has come to be?
And we then as a music of the cells
May dance with other musics than ourselves.
—Frederick Turner
