Abandoned Poet

Дата: 03-03-2006 | 00:01:54

The peach-trees no longer breathe and bloom.
Their petals, now covering the ground,
are like expired butterflies with broken
wings, unnoticeably fluttering - a token
of what is coming. Not a single sound
is heard throughout the garden soused in gloom.

I found your sandals yesterday, forgotten
in the pavilion, all in mould - it rained a lot…
I sat upon the threshold, kissed them, cried,
swimming relentlessly against the tide
which pulled you out of what your life was not.
The wind is walking gravely through the rotten,

uncared for garden. Why complain, I think.
Gold fish are in my pond, scrolls on my table,
a golden lightning breaking through the fog,
a distant cry of children, a barking dog.
There is a pair of horses in my stable,
there is a cellar full of wine, to drink

with strangers coming here from time to time.
I can do on my own, a golden lightning,
a distant cry, I can do no doubt well,
I have to get up, break this stupefying spell,
lead out my poor Psyche from her hiding,
stop jerking, twitching like a hired mime.

First I should write a letter, a distant cry
of children, a golden lightning breaking through,
a letter to my friend, and then, and then
he'll come to visit me into this dingy den,
tell him to bring a pair of women, too.
Let's animate with love this horrid sty.

What else, and send a man to buy some food,
there's no provisions in the storage room,
then write a letter to my friend,
I have already done it, someone's hand
has grabbed me by the wrist, the peach-trees bloom
no longer, the dead butterflies are like a hood

pulled down upon the face of ailing Spring,
a dog barking in the distance, a slow dance,
send a servant to the market-place to buy
some food, to animate this horrid sty
with love - the fog still ripens to enhance
the limits of my eyes, a golden lightning

cuts open the pregnant belly of the night.
The hand that grabbed my wrist begins to move,
a letter to my friend who was an actor - able,
with a loud posture - so he bought a marble
plaque for himself, and carved his name on it, to prove
his independence from the dog barking in the light,

I kissed your sandals, like an actor in a poor
performance, there're still gold fish in the pond, a distant cry
of hands clenching me by the wrist, the belly of the fog
open wide, to let the rain and mist go through and clog
the pathways in my garden, where my butterflies are lying dead, my
friend I know is not coming, I should tell him to bring a whore,

let's animate this sty with love. I only know to say come back, come back
my thoughts, like racehorses, fly into the net of dying butterflies,
my head is burning, a distant cry of children in the belly
of pregnant night, come back, come back, inside the wrenching alley
Psyche is sitting on the ground, complains and cries,
rubbing her eyes, trying to discern the disappearing track,

oh let your dear ghost approach her, be with her, embrace her
vulnerably, like you embraced me, quietly like the tears of the sun
seen by no man, because of the immensity of its gold-moulded grief,
sit you together on the ground, talk patiently to each other - if
I have some life, some sorrow left in me, I'll hear you. Yet one by one
the petals fall from peach-trees, the winds begins to blur

your face, your glowing hand around my wrist, all gone.
I looked around, my friend, the garden was still there,
strange to believe that it was almost summer.
I saw the village down the slope, I heard the hammer
clanging in the blacksmith's workshop. With combed hair,
a winged girl was limping up to me, alone.

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