Мария Визи - A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

From nowhere, like a fountain blue
a light flashed on.
We turn our heads up, I and you,
and it is gone,

above the blackness yonder, throwing
a golden mop,
and here — one more, in spirals going,
a ball, a top,

green, yellow, red and blue again —
all night aglow…
And, having wakened it in vain,
they go.

Far from the highways stretching round
a small forgotten town is found.
Its park is fresh, its church is old,
its sleep starts early, one is told.

A fountain and a tree are there
right in the middle of the square,
where often do a pig and kid
graze till the setting sun is hid.

And when at times a motor car
comes through the swelter from afar,
raising the dust, and hurries on,
and, like a soul that's doomed, is gone, —

all watch with sorrow for a spell
the stranger rushing straight to hell.
And later pray, when all is still,
for peace for him whose soul is ill.

I used to know and have forgotten lists
of ancient names and numbers half erased.
This world — who leads it in the dusky mists,
that some are lowered and the others raised?

And why have people suffered through the days,
and blindly sought, in vain, a better share?
Did hidden hands direct them on their ways?
Or was it chance that tossed them here and there?

And if it was that someone wished to send
the sound of mortal agonies to stand,
when will it be that He will put an end
to all, rem oving the relentless hand?

Poems are songs of a soul in its flight —
listen to them, passerby, in the night.

Poems are sparks of a soul that s aflame,
catch them, for heaven and they are the same.

Poems are tears of a soul that's a-smart —
take them, extinguish the fire of your heart.

Poems are secrets a soul has in store, —
Know them, rise up to them, sin nevermore.

She doesn't talk, and she is calm once more,
but joy will not return to her again:
the day dam p earth was thrown into his grave
— that day joy took leave of her for good.

She doesn't talk — and now her very soul
is empty, like a shrine above a grave,
where day and night burns an eternal flame
lighted above the silent sepulchre.

In one of my familiar dreams
there is a place that is so strange,
a stillness, where the sunlight beams
upon a peaceful mountain range.

Green stands a peak, and others crowd
as far away as eye can see,
while in the sky a silver cloud
patterns its fragile filigree.

And there upon the slope I stand,
but shall I triumph or deplore
that in this meditative land
I do not need you any more?

We roam a waterless valley
— but are we asleep or awake?
The wind stirs the treetops above us
with its ragged hem in its wake.

Here once a stream was running,
but its source has long been dry.
Only the sting of the half-moon
and desert's fathomless sigh.

From grandfathers' fairytales
— there once was a source, we know.
But we can't recall, half-dreaming,
when? and where did it flow?

We are lost. We are searching for landmarks.
Our hearts in their last despair
are poorer than starving beggars
that stand in the city square.

Flowers never live in my house,
but a minute they soothe the eye,
in a couple of days they die;
flowers never live in my house.

Birds either don't live here long,
only ruff their feathers and frown,
and by morning — a ball of down…
Even birds do not live here long.

Only volumes in eight long rows,
silent volumes of many pages,
guard the languorous thought of ages,
like teeth, in eight long rows.

The man who sold them to me,
I recall, was hunch-backed and poor…
…By the graveyard he kept his store,
did the man who sold them to me.

Tonight you will be coming soon,
and I will understand
why all alone beneath the moon
it feels so strange to stand.

Pale, you will check your step, and throw
away your cape and hood,
does not the full moon likewise flow
above the somber wood?

And by the magic of her ways
and by yourself spell-bound,
I will be happy — with my days,
the dark and stillness round.

So in the woods a beast which smells
that spring is coming soon
the rustling of the hours tells
and goes to watch the moon.

And softly to the glen he creeps
to wake the dreams of night,
and with the moon's own movement keeps
his step, that's ever light.

Like he, I will be speechless too,
will look and lose my strength,
and guard the solem n seal of you,
o, Night, throughout your length!

There will be m any shining moons
within myself and near,
and pallid shores of ancient dunes,
alluring, will appear.

And from the darkness which unfurls
the ocean green that roars
will bring me flowers, corals, pearls
the gifts of distant shores.

And there will be a thousand sighs
of creatures dead and far,
and somber sleep of silent eyes,
and wine from every star.

Then you will go, and I will stay
to hear the moon's last tune,
and see the dawning of the sky
above the pallid dune.

Only the tired are worthy of praying to God,
only by lovers the meadows of spring may be trod!

Soft is the sorrow on earth and the stars in the sky,
softly resounded a «yes» — in the darkness to die.

This is submissiveness! Come and bend over me now,
pale maid, wearing the black mourning-veil on your brow!

Sad is my land, in the wilds of the marshes it lies,
no land could ever be fairer for sorrowful eyes.

Look at the brownish buds and the damp-grown glen,
they are what makes me renounce the pleasures of men.

Am I in love? Or just weary as never before?
Oh, it is good that my eyes do not shine any more!

Calmly I look at the wind-blown grass of the plain,
calmly I hear in the marshes a bittern complain.

Reader of books, I also tried to find
my heaven in the knowledge which obeys,
I always loved them, — strange ways that wind
where neither hope nor reminiscence stays.

Into new chapters eagerly to roam,
upon the stream of many lines to ride,
and watch the growing waves and splashing foam,
and listen to the roar of rising tide!

But after dusk.. how horrible the shade
behind the shelf and icon in the night,
and, like a moon that shimmers on the glade,
the pendulum — immovable and bright!

His eyes are hidden underground lakes,
forgotten kingly halls, with floors untrod,
upon his brow the highest shame makes
its mark, and he will never speak of God.

His lips — they are a purple wound that's made
by poisoned daggers. Early silent grown
and overcast with melancholy shade,
they ever summon to a joy unknown.

His hands are full-moon marble, they are such
on which damnation will forever last,
for they have crucified and used to touch
young sorceresses in the ages past

His fate is in the centuries that lapse
to be the dream of people who would slay,
and of the poets; at his birth, perhaps,
a bloody comet melted, far away.

Within his soul — age-old offences live,
within his soul unnamed sorrow's tarry,
his reminiscences he would not give
for all the flowers of Cyprid or of Mary.

His wrath is not a sacrilegious wrath,
and tender hue his silken cheeks maintain.
And he can smile, and he can also laugh,
but weep… he cannot ever weep again.

The eagle flew ahead and toward the height,
through starry gateways to the Powers' Throne,
and full of beauty was his kingly flight,
and in the sun his brown feathers shone.

Where had he lived? Perhaps it was a King
who kept him chained, a prisoner, till now,
and he had cried to greet the maiden-spring,
that loved a prince with melancholy brow.

Or maybe in a wizard's gloomy den
when he was looking out the narrow door
the height above enchanted him and then
turned to a sun what was a heart before.

What matters that? The perfect azure heights
unfolded, ever luring him ahead
and ever on he flew, three days and nights
till in his bliss he smothered and was dead.

(…)
Rays of the planets pierced the heavens through
magnificent, divinely frozen rays,
but, never knowing perish, on he flew
and watched those planets with a lifeless gaze.

And more than once worlds tumbled, making room
for more, and the archangel's trumpet came,
and yet alone the eagle's gorgeous tomb
did never fall a victim of the game.