|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
|Thus we travelled on: either in tears or hurt by the white light. |
I looked round to see how visible it all was.
“As your soul aches and your vision wants to smash
the evil, crooked mirror that has taught you not to love.”
So I recognised with whom I was supposed to be.
My last friend and my first, amazing one, just a tension
between desire and horror, just a movement
to perish, when they don’t want to perish and they do perish
searching for a continuation
in the face, and the face is patient as a plant.
The heart of hearts, which destroyed themselves and were in love with salvation.
We passed through the fields and the fields reflected each other,
leaves flew out of leaves and the circle came out of a circle.
Or a meeting lies in wait, the garden which comes before us,
where you don’t see me, but will see how the leaves look,
the tears burn,
and matter itself will swear
that it was vision and will return to vision.
The train rushes on,
and the soul groans from faces,
moving aside the living tattered rags, like the barbarian, birdlike,
passionate language, to pluck out a reasonable word...
For you are no longer a meeting, nor the blowing to pieces of the coloured circle.
I will travel on and think in my before-heart emptiness,
travel and travel and cry about my endless death...