As if he cannot take a step,
even as they chase him, chase him.
O God, I think, o my God,
maybe I am soon to die—
and so I feel pity all around?
For the beasts, because they are beasts,
and water, because it flows,
and the wicked man, because of his misfortune,
and myself, because I have gone out of my mind.
10. THE HOUSE
We shall live for a long time, as long
as trees live next to the water,
as water washes over their roots,
and earth opens out toward the sky,
as Elizabeth goes out to meet Mary.
We shall live for a long, long time.
We shall build two tall houses:
one made of gold, one of darkness,
and both making the sounds of the sea.
They shall think that we are already gone . . .
Right then and there, we shall tell them:
“The heart of a person floats off
on water that is unseen, swift.
There, do you see it? Old time flies past,
like the dove from the days of Noah.”
11. THE DREAM
The Prodigal Son is having a dream,
Lying on his deathbed, he dreams
he is leaving home.
He wears cheerful garments,
and his great-grandfather’s ring.
His brother leads out his horse.
Early in the morning, it can be so fine:
the blast of horns and strings from the rear,
ahead, the playing is better still.
And the dogs, the servants, their wives,
have gathered at the gates to watch,
they are wishing him safe passage.
12. THE CONCLUSION
In every unhappy thing
there hides a ring or a secret note
left, as agreed, in a tree hollow.
In every word there is a road,
a melancholy and passionate path.
And the one who said yes, who is ready,
his tears flow, but not for this,
his hopes will be utterly different.
The one who knows no hope—shall have none.
The one who knows—shall again feel wonder,
shall smile openly in the mind,
and praise the mercy of God.
1981
POEMS WITH NO PLACE IN THE SECOND NOTEBOOK
THE FEAST
If he reads the stars,
or lays out stones, like cards,
and boils up sand and needles
to learn what comes
out of all that now is—
even so, he will discover very little.
Life—is a young wine.
No matter how much you drink,
it will not dull your mind
or loosen your tongue.
Better not even to start.
But when the candles are snuffed out
and everyone leaves to go home
or nods off at the table—
then it’s frightening to think
from whom you sought counsel,
and what matters you discussed,
where you have been, and why.
ANOTHER LULLABY
Sleep, my little dove, no one shall leave you,
leave you to be looked at by others,
as the woman gone out to harvest
left her son at the edge of the field.
She reaps the barley and wipes away tears.
“Mama, mama, who walks toward me,
who stands towering above me?”
Three old women with powers of magic,
or—three old she-wolves, all gone gray.
They rock your cradle, they coo you to sleep,
they chew the poppy seeds into softness.
But the child has no need of poppy seeds.
The child cries, but no one hears.
OLD WOMEN
As patient as an old artist,
I love to look long and hard
at the faces of devout and spiteful old women:
their mortal lips
and the immortal strength
that has pressed their lips together.
(It’s
