Once again I would like to raise a tent
close to your heart.
A farmer in the field
casts young seeds of wheat
into the fresh-ploughed furrow.
Each grain before it even touches the ground
turns into a moth
that is then left alone
at the mercy of daylight.
I saw that marvel
once in your eyes on the cover of a book
I received as a gift.
A dog marks the contours of his world
with his own piss.
Pythagoras did the same with ashes.
I have washed all my hooks
in sacred water.
Before I went down to the boat
I dug that long hidden oar
with my own hands
out of the river mud.
At the entrance to the temple
an invisible menorah was burning
under the August light.
The faraway stars
of melancholy
died out one by one.
The ancient tribes
saw them first
as they were being born in the sky
out of a milky mist.
Never to raise their heads again.
All those who graduated
on your verse
can now peacefully enter paradise.
Fearlessly carve their names
in a young birch’s bark.
And throw a handful of dust
high into the air and wait
for their minds to catch up
with their open eyes.