I can’t seem to find you,
lost in dreams anew.
Nor can I find myself, the sky merchants
Who can change my chants
Of the hope of a trial,
Or the lamp of a genie, all for a vial
Of the most tranquil dew.
Alas! Charon ferried you
For only a bean,
He kept the portrait, the old breast-pin,
Stashed away with hearsay
That there, beyond the borders, in the hush
Of frozen vocal chords, or lost in the slush...
Your soul suffers,
and weeps alone
Deprived of sleep,
losing bitter groans
Like a raving string,
the vice-filled tones
Of a nullified guitar The anathema of ice
Stole fire from your star.
I will know that besides
Sepulchral echoes on a hill side
They buried you merely a trophy, wild game
Spoils of the savage chase!
All for the fact you couldn’t see
or name the love that lies in grace.
And still I’ll stay for long, for old,
And I’ll squeeze out the flaming cold.
Beside that fence,
without sense of time and flesh
With cigales I will dance!
As I am like the fallacious leaf I dry on the wind, so aged and stiff, without a face.
If I fail to catch your tempting lips or your embrace.
All years shall pass as passers by,
My star shall fall from a fiery high,
And once, for all, my soul’s cry
And spirit’s whisper
Will spend all tears and dispel
My cares for the vesper!
And then, late in, I will exalt
A candle flame to the warlike bolt!
To bring some peace to a rebel’s soul,
I’ll stash away in a nook, in a vault
And lamp-black seamstresses
of darkening fault
Will fall on you, drawing you
With their grey voice.
And the glowing of a stone-dead flare
Will carry weeping from my lair
And gloom shall perch on the peak of a glare Then, there can be rejoice!
Only a heart will beat in vain
As a dust-winged moth in a lantern’s lane
Pulled back to harbour, tipsy
Combusting with the hope in pain Viewed in the sphere of a gypsy…