THE TWO REALMS
1 - The Wanderer
You were gathering flowers, hyacinths blood-red,
when I, released from the dreaming, received you.
And under the shade of the pomegranate tree, we were made one.
My mother burned with anger; my father only watched.
There was no past, there was no future: only the present,
incomplete, bound to the law. What did they matter?
Now, as we lie here, upon the white drifts of our bed,
there is only us -- no man, no woman. But I admit:
I did not see you when I dreamed of love. Her hair was red,
like the dawn, like the flowers in your basket, and her eyes
were green, like summer grass. But she was a relic of the night,
while you are real: the sex, the drifting scent, the passive cry,
the questions and answers united, mounting high--
Now, what adventures do we have, on these melting plains
of morning sun? I even lose an arm, ha! to a whale:
but what's an arm to the thousand? And as I rest here, my stump bound
to stop the bleeding, what else can I do, as the spring runs its fever?
Cuckoo, sing! Here comes the summer, another round of flowers.
2 - The Poet
Nothing can compare
to the loss of a beloved,
I tell my father.
His reply: no,
there is a greater. The loss of a son.
It's his weeping, I think,
for my mother -- she burned with fever,
not with anger when we left -- but he shed
no tears, no drops of dew, after the funeral.
It could be the folly of old age,
the vengerful soul of the crooked boy
who never truly left: but my father became a prophet,
not a pantaloon, as he aged,
and his eyes still twinkle like stars.
How different are we, my father and I:
he is quiet, patient, ever watchful,
while I act as if there is no tomorrow.
But his voice is the more commanding,
however soft: with his word,
he made the world,
while what do my songs here bear?
Only vanities. My father only watched
as my beloved died, carrying all our labours.
She was destroyed by love, like a flower bearing seed,
but the fruit is sweet: and my son
has green eyes, twinkling like stars.
