Slow Worlds

This light is dim, as if it has been born
inside some massive disconnected sphere,
transparent and perspiring very near
to our imaginary homes.
Seclusion of the shadows gliding through
those round walls that are detected only
as a reminder of another country
enveloped with the copper-tinted blue.
It could be said that the unwanted weight
of our experience is smaller
than that of things to come: the past is hollow
when future landscapes don’t replenish it.
Things unperceived are messengers of life,
self-generated in the rolling windows
of ruined possibilities, escaping
to their freedom from a burning hive.
The child of recognition, each of them
knocks on the door of chance which opens out
without any squeaking, any sound
and hangs upon its hinges like a fruit
on a rotating tree, and ripens so
profusely that it springs its aching veins
towards the trunk, and drinks its bitter sap,
and chokes the tree, and will not let it go
towards the goals of growth. Such is a winter day
remembered in the heat of summer noons,
when plants are so high that each one blooms
like a resplendent smile upon the mouth
of evanescent air. We can see
from here many objects being born
and trapped by their mutual fruition,
and then reduced to vain sterility,
but none of them can reach us, for the time
protects us in its womb from rain and thunder,
we’re burning like some splintered torches under
the mystery of air-fuelled domes.
We have access to very slow worlds,
so mellow their pulp explodes when touched,
a little more, and we shall hardly tell
the hasty mouldings from the hand that moulds.
The trees are standing still, the roots are tight,
the leaves are like unfolded stringy mirrors
projecting little trees towards the sunless
horizon lying flat upon the palm
of leaking sky. The more it rains, the more
this curtain seems to be threadbare and brittle,
only the moon is breathing like a turtle
trapped in a rotten basket on the shore.

Вланес, 2005

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 33351 от 31.03.2005

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