Elegy to a flower
I stretch out on the mountain, laying on my back in the grass,
Above my head stretches its rich, golden ornaments
With boat-shaped flowers, the slender and gentle Genista,
And many, many waving flowers, a hundred tiny, air light boats.
And I, like an orphan giant look at them, and until my sigh arrives
From my heavy heart to my sad lips,
To them it is a storm, disaster of unexpected strength ,
And the entire gentle gold fleet begins to tremble.
Happy, happy boats, who joyously sway in the rich
peaceful blue air of a Summer’s end afternoon
Suffer it nicely, if an occasional sigh alarms you,
This is a sluggish giant, since he is so forlorn.
Please suffer kindly, if out of his soul’s gloomy mines
Sorrow’s explosion rises,
You cannot know, what the shafts of immense misery
hide in such orphaned monster, in a – human!
You are just swaying quietly, and cool, silver showers
And the hot, gold touch of the dense rays of the sun
Seeps into your depth increasing your richness, with no anguish.
And fills with loads of honey and scent your narrow opening;
You collect the dawn’s dew like heavy pearls
And don’t wander aimlessly after bodyless treasures,
Looking for the colony of many impossible desires,
The stubborn captain, consciousness does not urges you on.
I too am a boat, but every particle is held together
By the iron nails of intense suffering, into a body,
And which the wild seaman takes all over crazy roads,
Not leaving it behind in a gentle bay to rock into lazyness its sorrow,
Even though its aching nails are already pulled gently
By the magnetic tip of the existence, beyond the present.
To fall apart in peace on silent clift
And not to be a wreck of severe roads with rattling breath and bruized
And the others?... the brotherly people,
These storm tossed, broken or disgusting, greedy boats,
Who are carried by the awful strength of the naughty sails,
Or sad oceans of blood: pirates and crying orphans.
Oh, thrown into the modern deluge of blood and tears
What awful fate for many poor human-boats:
Maybe we all perish, and there is none, not one among us
Who would be awaited by a glad Ararat, a pristine Noah.
Maybe we all prish, and on the quieted world
Only the miriads of little, meak flower boats sway:
A rainbow down on the grass, a rainbow upon the branch
A silent holiday, a post-human silence,
A happy trembling, and taking a light breath
The aching ancient matter sighs: the pain is by now over!
And trembling, the virgin lips of a lotus open
And Peace flutters into the happy air, on snow-white wings.