wrinkled hanging crags, with trembling
lips of dense-waved autumn clouds
nibble mountain pines
with tiny shrines
just below their necks
it would suffice for a bird sanctuary
the flying tiny creature,
in its eyes alternating rhythm
a thin shirt
slipped off the shoulder
and through the knit patterns
young breasts
doesn’t move, quieted, in one’s
reddish beak an olive branch
pale goddess of night, afraid of the moon’s
gloomy split-tongued beams
blow into the marble, even the dead
will heal
even the two of us: they watch with seductive shy
eyes sad as linden dew
wild woods without clearings
wild beasts chasing wild animals
I feel comfortable here uninvited, not expected
born - who knows, but the dead – a true wild thing
the pigeon did not bring news, a falcon took its place
moved the dragon in the passage, terribly home-made—from a fairy tale
hands to unfold a horseshoe
to hold the head’s world
you will cut one off—
the world will lurch and beneath the feet a stone will mold over
the way blood of the fruit of the vine
accidentally spills
the falcon will live again as a mottled cuckoo
the traveler cuckoo, dishevelled, the hunting cuckoo
will land on the hard arms of the appletrees to count
the years, would grasp in hooked talons
fragile and hard to swallow as a scab, good, silvered
already sent
by their father to gather them, to pick the fallen
aleliumas as they rattle
turned back into blossoms, into buds
of shells, into a root near the stone path
nuzzles into the roots to the stone path
pressed by me, inscribed with symbols and languages
I was of resonant space
filled with the echoings of young
me and the spring from under the stones in sacred
darkness beneath the vaulted sky of Gechard
with one, unflickering
near another cloud temple
the sun suddenly rolled away
overflowing with flashes of blood
autumn’s speckled head
with the surprised one, the general