First greyish rays predict the purple mass
Of morning that will lay its mighty load
Upon the blazing bushes and the grass,
Upon all things that make one stop and pass:
One more attempt to fill the complex mould
Of landscape with dense mixture, to decode
Its complicated curves and frozen phrases
Which vanish as appear and leave no stain;
To keep illusion that it still possesses
This manuscript to low slow paces,
Impossible to stop and to restrain,
Of coming forth forgetfulness and rain.
Grey marble slices scattered on the moss,
Vibrating wind throws lilies on the ground,
Expecting it to answer back, to toss
Split grains with comprehension of its loss:
But no, to aching past it’s tightly bound
That makes it be too slow, too compound.
Plants, wet in rain, now spread their leafless branches
Regaining value of the turning space,
The tongue of cypress shudders when it touches
Vague vertebrae of bent half-drawn arches
And clouds start to loose their flaky lace:
Refusal to become, to breathe and race.
So does the soul that’s trying to withhold
At least one thread of her half-woven cover
Of autumn trees with their passing gold,
Of cloven shrines which once have been so cold
And their warmth are seeking to discover
Through mess of leaves and birds that burst and hover.
Time kneels among them, marks these greenish stones,
Especially those that still preserve
Faint fingerprints of days, like tiny loans
Collected from their own self that dawns
On hollow hills, above the azure curve,
With solemn mass to listen, not to serve.
With rusted sides, a heap of grass above,
Its circle is still drawing the heavy sphere.
The convex day’s diminished to a dove
Without motion, like a clumsy glove,
When sleeping things are crawling, circling near
To catch it and to take away from here.
These loosened trees still hide their crumpled spring
Which, when they nod to wind’s versification,
Jumps up and flaps, as if it wants to cling
To blueness, but breaks its jingling wing
And falls, again submitting to transgression
Of painless day to pain and plain impression.
This dawn is singing like a peacock mad
That spreads its fan above the universal
And coherent counterpoint of sad
Events and things, faint victims of the dead
Emotions having them at their disposal:
Like after long and tiring rehearsal,
All towers are silent and depressed.
Thin smell of future, coming from tomorrow,
Dissolves the knots of space, all mixed and messed.
The day, pale angel, who has not possessed
This landscape, and another failed to borrow,
Falls broken on the grass, all blue with sorrow.
And now it comes: sick whistle of the clock
Still hanging somewhere under the horizon,
The drops of rain still falling, knock by knock:
But night is locked and lying like a block
Upon the column’s hand abruptly risen,
Above the daisies fixing yellow eyes on
Smooth needle waves diffusing o’er the land.
How everything is running from this being
Enframed and caught, but, on the other hand,
How is afraid to lose it and to spend,
Annihilated by this sailing ceiling,
High inevitability of feeling.
In grassy streams, like a transparent ship,
Stuck to the core of noon with a waving petal,
It’s present, rocking, trying not to slip
And get forever lost in the mighty grip
Of memory with huge and transcendental
Destructiveness to what she cannot handle.
Each passing moment holds his picture, caught
And terminated in subsequent turning
To general in it, but all for naught:
This landscape takes him for an alien thought:
With silence not replaced by deeper droning,
Vibrating on a crisping wing of morning.
Things usually sleep, but every day
Awake for certain time to catch impression
Of rupture ‘tween this whirl-like spreading clay
And their selves, these flowers mixed with hay,
And to submit to painful transformation
Within revival and annihilation.
Frail columns don’t respond to asking hands:
Dust writes upon them, hasty rain erases,
Reverberating future understands
And doesn’t mar them when connects the ends
Of time strung up and cleft, and hides the bases
In rustling hair that flows down her two faces.
Pines merge their breathing, like ripe moments, in
So strange and unpredictable pulsation
Of smells and sounds being long within,
But now bubbling up the straightened spin
Of afternoon, now breaking isolation,
That landscape all appears like a flash on
Reflection of a mirror, and dissolves,
And then again, half-sparkling, half-reserving,
Springs forth and disappears: burning goals
Time loses, and at random reels and rolls
Swelled grains of days in distant valleys growing
And choosing winds the most restrained from blowing.
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