Beyond
Beyond these walls there is the sea;
Beyond these chairs,
Left empty in dreams,
Beyond the houses burnt and collapsed,
Beyond dark curtains, helplessly flapping
Over empty window sockets,
Lies the colour blue,
A steely blue,
A piercing, stony blue-
The Sun's bride,
Now tear-stained, then exceedingly beautiful,
The eternal sea, a foamy answer
To the dreams of the night
And to the infinite longing

Passing Through Fire
The child was laid low in the hospital;
He passed through fire and no one
Could take the fire away
From his shoulders.

The child died in the hospital.
The sun trickled
Drop by drop into the sea.

In the end-
When all of these went down-
I saw the child on the other side.
He wasn't a child anymore.
But he wasn't himself either:
It was somebody who had passed through fire
And he was alone.

The Heroes' Gestures
Could it be that the statues' faces
-Those proud heroes with their daring gestures-,
Were lying to us?
And the clusters of angels, did they ever shield us
When oppressed, we asked for their help?
Lofty words blow out in the eveing breeze,
Tender beings become ugly and die;
There is nobody to listen,
There is no one to teach us.
Scattered seeds lie barren on the field.

And today, if I cross myself before the ancient icons,
Before the long sleeping ancestors,
A new doubt springs up in my heart
That maybe, on a cloudless day like this,
Even you, kind angel, will decieve me.

To Be Sixteen Again...
How hard it would be
To be sixteen again,
To be suave, fragile and to keep
Your eyes half closed under your lids;
To embrace your knees with transparent hands,
To wish you could return into the warm belly
The one that not long ago
Held you tight, giving you the air
And the nourishment you needed
To grow, to flourish.

How hard it would be
To be sixteen again,
To know, to sense, that your turn had come
To bear fruit, to become a blue cradle;
-The sky opening up at the blessed hour
And letting you see in a flash
Your future lovers and children,-
To feel your body heavy, your breast round,
Your eyes weary, your step slow,
And later on - to face with modesty,
The bitter servitude of the golden years.