Delphi

The mist is so dense that every tree
seems lifted in the air. Distant trees
are long and stagnant like grey traces on
the window glass, of rain. Their shape was lost
in an attempt to interfere with
unalienable circumference. And now
they are as fluent as the articulate speech
entangled in the nets of dashing words.

Dim autumn bushes, with their bitter scent,
are dropping fiery petals, one by one:
the rhythm of persuasion. That swollen bird
is like a circumflex upon the cypress-tree,
to change the spelling of this pendent spot
and, maybe, not to recognise it. Thus the things
escape from recognition, even though
this does not bring them any better terms.

The stony ground is dappled with the wet
and gleaming breeze of petals - a trembling lake
of crimson milk, but turned and knotted. All above
is a transparent mixture of the dyes.
There is no evidence that this will fade and pass,
the souls of ruined shrines are standing by
and guarding their wounds, with watching eyes
where mellow memories are tired of themselves.

There is no sign of entering despair
and demolition, all the structure of
this landscape indicates a sudden swerve,
salvation, being apt to freeze at once
and then transform into its own past
where it was fresh and fruitful. As it is,
it has no further courage to persist
and, therefore, has no strength to want.

And in the thready tuning of the birds
there are some modulations that were not
envisaged by the whole harmonic set
of leaves and branches hovering inside
of locked uncertainty. The marble plates are full
of opal powder that cannot overweigh
their silent substance shaping the spheric gates,
the triangulated basements of the emptiness.

They do not know eternity – this dry and clumsy crisp
under the tongue – only the balance of
duration and destruction. The rains are stretching hands
through silver shattered roofs of sleeping temples
to fill in their visions. The smell of molten gold
is everywhere. Pulsating streams are like
the veins of a new-born child, yet changing blue
to ashy white while weaving their nets.

You, too, when disengage your present place,
will be replaced by something from above
or underneath, to vivify your trace
and not to cancel, but to stress your voice.
This perfect balance between life and life
preserves both sides and keeps them unexchangeable.
And this is why the death has no spot
to rush, and tunes his rusty string from outside.

Вланес, 2005

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 32855 от 16.03.2005

0 | 0 | 2120 | 21.11.2024. 11:30:49

Произведение оценили (+): []

Произведение оценили (-): []