Bronze Mirror Revisited

Дата: 02-03-2006 | 00:18:38

Your green unbroken line, unseen recoil,
dark crevices within your verdant slope,
not stagnant, yet unmoving, arid soil -

dim layers, winged times without hope.
Determination to exterminate,
wipe clean your shrinking face, a plaintive slate
that overgrew its allocated scope.

How much exactly of this raw time's hate
you've known ? I can hear if you can tell.
Crack yet again, break for a trite your spell.
I'm so entangled I cannot undate

myself, unfeel, unsense myself, unhell
my soul, continue this never ending toil,
forever interrupted by death's knell.

There's no expression in your fatal caves,
whatever faces slid in, they are gone,
greened dead, over-abused like jet-black slaves.

Thin days which animated you, a moan
of inconsistency, mismatch between your dead
desires and whatever keeps your head
so viridescent - it can't go on,

you're emptied, a corroded bowl: sped,
raced, crashed, cleft open, snapped, rubbed down, split -
your own images are pressing you like lead,

you can't go on, there is no more to it
than fleeting faces for your crumbling naves:
your sea of bronze assails itself and saves
imagined ships from never waiting pit.

My face is waving its transparent wings,
o happy Cherub ! o happy happy day !
My every vein erratically clings,

like ivy, to the tower of decay.
Our faces press together, deadliness,
uncanny supercilious caress -
a snappy bite of horror. I can't stay

to challenge your determined readiness,
your slow decomposition to the roar
of necrotising bronze. Not long ago
I saw the dead advance, as on a chess-

board, harshly chanting dirges in a low
voice, regaining life, marching away -
wrapped in the past, like in the sunset glow.

If they indeed have come to life, then there's
no difference between us. Let birds swill
their throats with dew and let above the hill
the gloating sun with sticking out hairs

demoralise the universal will.
Your face had sucked down so many faces
that they have merged in one - forever still,

swollen with meaning, there are no traces
of individuality, of softly bursting veins,
of meaty regions where emotion reigns,
where heart builds up a case for life and races,

a savage frothy steed without reins
of reason - silent like a lonely mill,
half-integrated into dancing rains.

Much time has passed, but it was only me,
self-seen again and bounced off your wall.
You'll stay within your hurtful reverie -

and if in days to come you would recall
persistence of my heart, let me again
walk bareheaded in your glaucous rain
pursuing my imaginary goal,

let your transparent streams wash every stain
of hatred off my soul, let moulded bread
of copper-coloured landscapes glow red
under the god who flares above the plain.

Your fecund past, be it alive or dead,
will persevere, undisturbed and whole,
with its death-ridden bliss of being sad.

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