Daphne

You made it to the crystal pond,
but froze and ebbed away,
your eyes two pebbles and your hand
the algae's feral sway,
whatever has been thought or said
could not be forced to stay.

Your little soul has fallen through,
gone playing with the eels,
under the carpet green and blue
it neither thinks nor feels,
from everything it caught from you
it now slowly heals.

It touches the primeval ooze,
shoots up the pillars gray
supporting a dim temple whose
faint flock has gone astray,
whatever shape it wants to choose
will be but shaky clay.

It will remain there long enough
to see the sun go stark,
to hear the constellations laugh
and whizz within the dark,
the moon, a medlar cut in half,
go black upon its ark.

And you will never leave this side,
nor ever make amends,
nor will you ever melt and hide
your trunk that groans and bends,
calamity personified
with bitter twiggy hands.

Вланес, 2006

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 50093 от 23.12.2006

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