|From the book Gates. Windows. Arches|
|Do you remember – April approaching? and in the middle of it now, |
as though sailing by sea, whistling wind and groves of the oracles.
But how I long for life! It is just as absurd, Lycinius,
as trying to drown a cork in the ocean of everyone’s doom.
We sail on the ship of the state to die from shame.
For who wants to put their tongue to frozen iron?
For earth is not heaven, for tomorrow is still not soon,
and today continues to bustle. Today is like aged Tiresius.
From below the deck I will bring forth an old picture of a butterfly and a candle:
I need to examine the wings and roots of powerful death.
There the ocean will begin to wail like the blind bard forging a song
before a selfish crowd who will not feed him.
O, ocean-moth! who has folded, who has unfolded your wings? who has scooped out
my heart with spoons of lines so completely that nothing is left?
That is how the ocean lives. Tell me, Lycinius, who lives
in the golden core of a candle’s flame so that it can smile till the end?
|Slava I. Yastremski and Michel Naydan |
| ||To Lycinius|