Chapter 8 8
aster blooms
A light awn like a velvet belt.
And chrysanthemums,
A touch of northern yellow.
it was halloween,
we have nowhere to go,
Our dead do not live in this kingdom,
Their tents were pitched among the other dead
In the memory, in the hawthorn fruit, in the lead.
It's been raining for a week, raindrops
step into the ground,
Like a deadpan Chinese warrior,
Mountain springs flowed on their backs,
greedily licking water and October,
clay molds itself
more perfect shape.
we have nowhere to go,
Although the days are empty,
Like sleeves blown by the wind.
the cemetery is full
elegant rarity,
like dawn
A dance hall where dreams have faded.
Our dead do not live in this country—
They have been traveling for several years.
their address on the yellowed postcard
has become illegible, while the stamp
The printed country name has long since disappeared.
A train stops at a small station,
For a moment, it didn't move a muscle.
The door slams, the gravel crumbles underfoot,
Someone is saying goodbye, forever.
A glove fell to the ground, and the shadow of the sun dimmed.
The door slams again, even louder,
The train is moving again,
Hidden in mist, like the nineteenth century.
Carrying burdens big and small,
Sometimes visible and sometimes invisible,
Trek in mud or desert,
I can't straighten my back, my legs are weak from hunger,
Silent men in heavy jackets,
Four seasons are the same,
wrinkled old women
Always holding something—children, lamps,
Or the last slice of bread?
Possibly today's Bosnia,
Poland in 1939, followed by eight months of
France, Germany in four or five years,
Somalia, Afghanistan, Egypt.
There was always a carriage, or a wheelbarrow,
Loaded with treasures (quilts, silver cups,
stale family atmosphere),
The car that ran out of oil and was abandoned by the side of the ditch,
Horses (seemingly abandoned), snow, lots of snow,
Too much snow, too much sun, too much rain.
always bow down
As if leaning on another, better planet,
Less ambitious generals,
Less snow, less wind, less cannon,
Less history (poor, how can there be
Some planets like this can only bow their heads and bow their heads).
dragging legs,
They go slowly, slowly,
To an absent country,
a not-on-the-river
Utopia.
You are my silent companions,
the dead.
I will not forget you.
In old letters I find your handwriting,
crawling at the top of the page,
Like snails on the walls of a psych ward.
The address and phone number where you reside
In my notepad, waiting and dozing.
Yesterday in Paris, I saw hundreds of tourists,
Tired, next to the cold.they are like you,
Nowhere to settle, keep going around in circles.
You may have thought that life was easy.
All that is needed: a handful of earth, a boat, a nest, a prison,
A little air, a few drops of blood, and longing.
You are my sir,
the dead.
do not forget me.
Vermeer's little girl, now famous,
watch me.A pearl looks at me.
Vermeer's Little Girl's Lips
It's red, moist, and bright.
O little girl of Vermeer, O pearl,
Blue turban: you all shine
And I am made of shadows.
light overlooking shadow
With tolerance, perhaps with compassion.