|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
|Never, o my Lord God, |
will I take from the deep darkness
this wind which knows like us
this eternally sensing skin.
They sat at table in silence.
Time passed as it liked.
Wooden buckets clanked.
The garden floated in the wells in the distance.
Someone began to talk and ended.
The rest rushed at him,
begging him to put off
that which from the very beginning of the night
had been approaching him down the nearby hill.
But time had already entered and risen.
The heart was beating everywhere, it seemed –
like a bucket let down by everyone
on the huge mourning water...