Мария Визи - A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

From tired lid, a tear crawls down my cheek.
Coins jangle on the church collection tray.
No matter what we pray for, what we seek,
it's always for a miracle we pray.

That two times two make five instead of four,
and straw would turn into a rose in bloom,
that I be home, in my own house, once more,
though there is no such thing as house or home.

That from the churchyard mound where grasses sway
you suddenly step out, alive and gay.

Like some strange blessing that descends upon us,
our kiss is full of fire and passion swift.
And yet I know: a future day is coming
when I will have to choose your wedding gift.

So let it be: some shaken thrones will tumble,
and mighty cities fall, and forest burn.
Laws that are ironclad were once established, —
once and for all they will remain stern.

I’ve long outgrown all manner of partitions,
of language, and of blood, and even race,
and all those other age-old walls and fences
with which a man surrounds his private place.

Even today, I hate that coming hour
when, speaking softly, you will say, «My dear!
A temporary harbor may be lovely,
but now it's time the ship should homeward steer.

My destiny is clear, — you will explain, —
I'm but a door where generations stand
yet to be born, of small and slant-eyed people
with yellow skin — as ever in my land».

And you will leave forever, disappearing
behind blank walls which I deny in vain,
— in cold betrayal, though without betraying —
into the cruel truth of your domain.

No races, castes, or creeds… Wide as the sea,
like that same sea, I will remain alone,
wearily mirror someone else's dawns,
and, longing for the East, complain and groan.

Alone and free…But truly, what of that:
I'm quite prepared, forsaking all desires,
an unknown passerby, to be the last
to warm my hands at other people's fires.

The Christ Child had a garden once,
and many grew the roses there.
He gave them water twice a day,
so he could have a wreath to wear.

And when the roses came to bloom,
he called the children in, to share,
bach took a flower for himself,
and soon they left the garden bare.

«How will you make yourself a wreath?
There's not a rose on any bed!»
«You have forgotten that the thorns
are left for me», the Christ Child said.

And so they took the thorns and laid
a prickly wreath upon Him now,
and scarlet were the drops of blood,
instead of roses, on His brow.

Close tighter every door and close your eyes,
forget that you are living, think not then,
and let your blindness guard you from the skies
and deafness — from the noise of earthly men.

Know not of the beginning and the end —
and a new world before you will arise!
So in his coffin does a dead man send
a smile to visions hidden from our eyes.

Days are passing after the nights
putting out — what care they? — the lights.
Dream on dream float onward and on,
all alike and black every one.
Ever lower the sky does grow.
God, it's death approaching, I know.
God, I know it's you who led
me on poverty's path ahead,
turned off near me all the lights
of the dreams the days and the nights,
so that I, in the dark around,
on the empty, ice-covered ground,
being sentenced, like all, to die,
found nothing of which to cry.

We dream our dreams, but do not know that they
are God’s own warnings, and believe them not.
A last night’s dream, like smoke, will blow away,
today will come — and it will be forgot.

So with this earthly life — when death is nigh,
and on the death-bed frozen falls our hand,
closing the lid of our wondering eye,
we never will recall or understand!

I know not how or why, at whose behest,
by what strange powers of the earth or sky,
you share with me my crust of bread, and lie
close to the heart that heats within my breast.

In days that are inspired, as on the day
of death — you are inseparably near.
All else will pass, all else will disappear…
I he constant shining of your eyes will stay.

As slaves are driven from behind
with w hip and shouts that don't abate,
so I am goaded by my blind,
my cruel and relentless fate.

In such a servitude and pain
what boundless strengths one must possess
in order not to go insane
or die from hunger and distress!

But as the day grows ever dimmer
it s pierced — so often! — from the skies
by slender wings that lightly shimmer
and luminous transparent eyes.

I die so slowly, crawling, groping…
Yet as I reach the gate of heaven
I know that he will pull it open
and with his wing will help me in.

Don't go away, for I am lost,
stay here, for I am cold;
upon my chest my hands are crossed
that I may not unfold.

I cannot lift my eyes to see,
it's cold, and dark as well.
This cannot be, this cannot be
the bottom of the well…

Never felt I more to be pitied,
ridiculous, clumsy, weak;
I dreamed I was turning blind,
the sky was a blackened streak.

Oh, weight of unseeing sadness,
remembrance of earthly day!
Invisible voices, crying,
ran past me upon their way.

Oh, death without putrefaction,
insatiable worm of night.
I summoned God to redeem me,
but it was you who replied.

The lower your voice, the softer,
the more the answer grew clear:
«My dear, I hear you, I hear you,
there is no salvation, dear!»

It all will be as I have always wished:
over my feet the cover will be white
and white will be the ribbon of the wreath
around my forehead, grown cold and dark.

Keeping my earthly, my familiar look,
three long, three not-to-be-forgotten days
alone upon the table I will lie.
Pompous and solemn, the memorial mass
will be performed above me by the priest
and silently around me there will stand
my family, my enemies, my friends,
and those with whom I lived and whom I'd met;
and the transparent pallor of her face
will lend an added beauty to my wife.

It all will be as I have always wished.

And only you will never have a chance,
in your great longing and your last despair,
to touch my hand, my all but living hand,
to touch already my unseeing eyes.

And even into the wide open church
you will not dare to enter with the rest.
But, waiting for me somewhere on the way,
pressing your hand over your pain-stilled mouth,
you will observe my coffin floating past
silently, in the mist, without a trace…

And at that moment the dead heart in me
will suddenly, in mortal pity, shake,
and you will clearly hear the distant beat
— the beat, so long familiar, of my heart.
But people will not hear a sound.

At last the poem is completed.
The soul is void, the soul is light.
The hand that holds the pen is shaking
as from a giddiness of flight.

The world of phantom, barely seen,
swaying, recedes into the gloom;
out of the darkness Earth arises
steadfast and ponderous as doom.

As only on a sheet of paper
a mark, unsure and indistinct,
reflects the light which fell from heaven
in smallest drops of drying ink.

And now the heart beats faster, weary,
as if beyond some starry goal
running across the plains of heaven
the body too had chased the soul.

Burn in the foggy whiteness, burn,
burn in the fog of icy skies,
lighting the murky twilight stillness
with your bright body as it flies.

And soaring from the crowded heaven,
enter my crowding prison walls
through the slit window, like a bird,
to visit me when evening falls.

Soaring above decay and coldness,
incomprehensible, though near,
glide, circling from the vaulted ceiling
down to the dusty corners here,

that — even for the briefest moment!
and though I burn my fingers through —
I am allowed, in sweetest torment,
to touch the body that is you.

Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk,
in which we live so close we gasp for breath
not guessing the beginning or the end,
dreaming of happiness which conquers death.

This indestructible, poor mortal land!
But close your eyes: another lies beyond —
A world in which you are a midnight star
immobile in its speechlessness and bright,

— a world in which I am a limpid pool
whose face reflects your ever-shining light.
Above this world, that other will appear —
that's quite transparent, and quite simply clear.