The white wing cuts through the wingless day...

The white wing cuts through the wingless day,
the sunray roams over the windless bay.

A silent kiss through a white-white screen,
beloved face which is hardly seen.

It all had happened so long ago,
I don't know when, I refuse to know.

It is all memory and its mindless game -
soon every thing looks just the same.

My childhood hastening to pass,
a cricket chirping in the grass.

Succession of the open doors
and in their depth a grazing horse

enveloped by the reverie
of the quiet wood and the quiet sea.

How could I stretch, how could I start
reaching for time's relentless heart ?

How could I force the past to be
while there is nothing left of me ?

The red wing cuts through the wingless day,
blood trickles down into the bay.

A silent kiss through a red-red screen,
beloved face - not gone, not seen.

It is all memory and its fate -
to have, to lose, to imitate.

Вланес, 2004

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 30341 от 20.12.2004

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