|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
|The Flight of the Prodigal Sun|
|You are just like the heart after running, |
an unprecedented triumph,
you are life, living to the point
that you groan looking out of the ark
at the depths of anger itself
and you demand destruction:
movements in horror, plunging into
I do not exist when there’s no sea
of your obsessive reprimands.
In your name I only love
your searching grief.
Others sought light in it.
I have no brother, no advice.
I don’t pity anyone.
Let love fumble round the house,
and the doors are locked –
the black garden strikes me in the eyes,
swaying like the beam of a streetlamp.
The garden, as a spirit, when oaths
burned in fire and ate the earth,
and as the spirit it is dense as of old.
You order us to live – but I will not.
You call – but I am silent.
O death, the overfilling of the miracle.
Father, I want horror.
Let the soul, like Judas
go along the black ray,
visible from everywhere!
As though in the well’s depth
all the stars sucked
into one star, heavy in its likeness;
dragged down to the bottom
so fast that it swears
that it will see the suffering through – and return
eating the depth like darkness
and reflecting to the end
the face of the loving father.