When the sons shall fall
into the soft holes in the clouds
when mothers with empty cradles
shall descend the peaks
calm be the hand of the caresser,
the shoulder yet uncarved in the stone
shall the cheeks of the milkman burst out
among the statues?
Oh, burning candle
among the columns,
spirit taken from the herbs –
on which step
shall we take up our walk
of those without a future
and shall I embrace extended neck
over vanished words
I, the fresh ashes of the universe.
Calm be the hand of the caresser
when the rains strike.
D. Mihajlovski and G. Reid