Timeless Gardens
In poetry’s warm snares
melancholy has built
a nest for words
banished from the gardens of Heaven,
which pine for their homeland,
for the fruit of the Tree of Goodness
which still grows
where it was planted
by the eldest son of time.
From the icy plains of our lives
trackers come into our dreams,
and fate, with a hand of stone,
gathers flowers and dew
in gardens of unchanging seasons –
to feed sorrow
on its journey upon the Earth,
while poets
stand at the gates of the Creator
trusting in his silence –
which they want to turn into words,
into a cry whose echo,
thrown back from the stars,
will become a magic stone,
a crystal that can
sculpture silence,
and be used to write pure poetry.
In the Squares of Babilon
Plug your ears with your palms,
do not listen to the conversation
between your time
and some other time.
Do not heed
the effort of this moment
to run away from itself
and from it all.
Are calamities brought about
by humans or time?
Do not listen to your inner strife
over this matter.
It will be best to take a pen
and find refuge in a poem.
There you will be content and lonely
like a slave in the squares of Babilon.
Command to Death
Saddle a shaggy ram,
drive it up fierce slopes.
With a trident in your hand
go through our garden
without opening paths
to our dream.
Quietly call out
and gather your escorts
while immeasurable time
renews eternity with oblivion
in the rhythm of your heart.
Mow mercilessly
with a scythe the devil slaps together,
while an angel sharpens it
and splashes it with holy water.
And when you wear down,
drop your head on our shoulder,
heed a mortal heart,
conceive its immortal hope.
melancholy has built
a nest for words
banished from the gardens of Heaven,
which pine for their homeland,
for the fruit of the Tree of Goodness
which still grows
where it was planted
by the eldest son of time.
trackers come into our dreams,
and fate, with a hand of stone,
gathers flowers and dew
in gardens of unchanging seasons –
to feed sorrow
on its journey upon the Earth,
while poets
stand at the gates of the Creator
trusting in his silence –
into a cry whose echo,
thrown back from the stars,
will become a magic stone,
a crystal that can
sculpture silence,
and be used to write pure poetry.
do not listen to the conversation
between your time
and some other time.
the effort of this moment
to run away from itself
and from it all.
by humans or time?
Do not listen to your inner strife
over this matter.
and find refuge in a poem.
like a slave in the squares of Babilon.
drive it up fierce slopes.
With a trident in your hand
go through our garden
without opening paths
to our dream.
Quietly call out
and gather your escorts
while immeasurable time
renews eternity with oblivion
in the rhythm of your heart.
Mow mercilessly
with a scythe the devil slaps together,
while an angel sharpens it
and splashes it with holy water.
drop your head on our shoulder,
heed a mortal heart,
conceive its immortal hope.
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