A fresco in azure
in the body of a bird the bride
sleeps — a cosmic rose upon golden voices —
the flood carries away the laurel
leaves, the cunning honey and the naive weapons.
The prayer awaits: tears turned
to stone, the snows with their drums turned
away; darkness binds them in their sockets:
a shroud of sorrows / burnt stamens.
Brass
percussion lamps, vocal strings will violate the ridges
when the catapetesms weep at
the customs post of the high sky from a
story.
With the shadow of the choir, the shy and hesitant blind man
will depart to revive
the church from the graves / the living
pupil, the mystical chalice, the solitary raven.
Icon on glass
You were once a fire but who is He?
The ashes show you that He has passed
, depicted with the great ring
and the giant lion in another past
Beneath the bridge beneath the bridge of a bitter
fairy-tale, the child lies in vain
, with apple blossoms in their hair like ‘ler’s’, ‘ler’
, and the apple blossoms speak in the sky
as the sacrifice rises the sacrifice of a lamb
, but who is He?
but who is He? with voices of smoke
the donkey gives you to harness him and you weep
in your pure flesh; you stuff the five
senses with honey then
now
, with the rope of silence, you gird
yourself and flee in your sleep to Lord Israfel
, but who is He?
In the weary eye, a grain of wheat
stands
, punished in the chaff; the woman, waist-deep
—the firstfruits pass through the slaughter
, filling her deaf mouth with earth
—but who is He?
The windmills
barely stir, like the priest the old minstrel
strikes his staff against the word
, and ancient signs come to life: hèn kai pàn
in the ancient tongue of seven thousand years
, but who is He?
Close to childhood
The mouth still holds a soft light
high upon the walls, rousing the bats
until a curl of white hyacinth falls upon your brow
.
Trees on crutches with green
eyes raise misty hands to the windows
, blood blossoming in the open
cavern of the stone stag.
Gentle hymns in abysses of fear
tear a tinsel across lakes of zodiac
signs; the garden’s snakes hurl
forked tongues towards the blackbird.
The lament passes deep through the cemetery
; the wayside shrines bow, guessing that the golden frog might steal
a heavy, sweet seed
of fairy tales.
Black is the snow in which (once...)
a guardian angel built, from a single night
, a sign to raise, whispering to the stranger
—a purity.
If not, forgiveness
My eyes have forgotten the day of my
wedding, shrouded in smoke and mist. —
Is it you, child, amongst the heavy
swords, my firstborn? What satellites
have taken my wife? Sweat like that of a beehive encircles
my skull, and in my flesh I feel
how the pale virgin
, your bee with her silver body, awaits you.
My native land lies poor within you
, with ears of grain withered by hunger;
O glorious deliverance, it no longer holds
ring, belt or staff.
And the chaff scattered over the wounds
, little donkey, which I have passed
over before without the sounds of harps and kettledrums
, my face tear-stained towards a past lament.
As long as hands press
down upon a wooden plough—for you are now a tax-payer—
compelling a pure ray into battle:
the multitude of roses.
Take my bones out at once
and repeat: ‘I am the One who is’
, and carry them without a sigh over the slopes of
a holy mountain.