Lovers in the Moonlight
by Marc Chagall
Look at the sky. Is there no constellation called Rider?
For the image is imprinted on the mind:
this arrogance made from Earth and a second one astride,
driving him and holding him back.
Hunted, then harnessed: isn't this
the sinewy nature of our being?
Path and turning, a touch to guide.
New distances. And the two are one.
But are they? Or is it only the going
that unites them? When they stop
they belong again to table or pasture.
The story pattern fools us, too. Still,
it pleases us for a moment
to believe in them. That is all we need.
Sonnets to Orpheus I, 11