MY JOB

It’s my job to make out the meanings of things –
Of the sky, of the grass, of the grasshopper’s flight,
Of the pond, of the fish, of the slenderest rings
On the clouded surface, so blue, so white.

Someone has to unravel the intricate plots
Of the paths in the meadows ever leading astray,
Or the hot afternoon which to five-o-clock plods
May despair and sit by the water to stay.

Sudden gale and the fall of unwarranted dark
Almost baffle me for an inscrutable pause,
But the meaning soon flashes to me as a spark
And lights up all the world, to a storm of applause.

So much on the tiniest details depends!
Every raindrop must find its cradle of dust
Like a story that winds but happily ends —
If I get at its meaning, be happy it must.

Having done with the drops, shrewdly squinting my eye,
I look up, and the elements get reconciled,
And to fathom the meaning I put on the sky
Seven braces of colors, so plain, so wild.

My responsible job keeps me busy all day
And I hope I’ll do nothing else in my life,
And if once I’m done with the earth, I may
Get to counting stars – one, two three, four, five...

Александр Капьяр, 2005

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 847 № 34600 от 19.05.2005

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