And now, finally, to hell with lakes and woods!
From where are smoke and rustling silk in the sky?
To read from plastic, from tractor tires,
to take the stone and instead of wings
to use the experience of the snake,
from which we ran, for which we strove
mixing silly distance and closeness, height and depth
and hazy hope with such a tangible time.
Did I learn anything from the dream but the loss
of the Promethean wrath that bravely saved us
and did I see anything through deceitful binoculars
of the whore hope but decrepit iconostases
before of humbleness mortal as a bull’s eye,
of the Vardar as of the Seine, of the Crna as of the Vistula
of ourselves as a souls before divine peace?
It is all different, cruel and obstinate so
that it will not just trot after us
like a faithful dog and the course of a poetic ache,
and when it stops, stiff as a stubborn mule
half way, before yet another poetic evening,
they use us here: pallor, endurance and modesty,
but not comfort: can you utter the essence?
Not like our unacknowledged lover – faith.
And still, where, towards what original fierceness
does this effort of man lead us to walk the skies
as on slick muddy soil and all bloody
to lie with her – the virgin mistress?
Destructive soul, you that once were
kin and so close to the dust as to yourself
enter into everything and like an explosion be
that thunder that shook the artist’s sky!
To the first intrauterine nights! Back!
Let the earth and fire mix, lava gurgle
from the first dawn in place of tons of anemic plasma
that I return, inevitably, to start faithfully
and take the first step without subterfuges and doubt
across the sky and bellow as across my own soul:
I pray at the threshold, my despised home,
to life, to him, though sunk neck deep in sin.