Monday, 28 November 2016

I. K. - Peter Bruveris

And days lived out are our clay,
and sleepless nights – our salt; to the window
where cloud shadow just crossed, bends
a branch of lilac that bloomed this morning, like a joke
one more spring has arrived, lengthening
the distance from Being to the North Pole
or: from a cherry pit this side of the garden gate
to the whistling thrushes on the edge of sunset, that side;

you approach, holding a cornet of wild strawberries in your hands,
you approach, carrying violet mist upon your shoulders,
you approach, the world’s reflection at the ends of your eyelashes,

your steps in soft moss are unheard,
your dreamy fish float in rivers,
and from a pipe of apple wood rising smoke
joins two impossibilities in the skies;

just then the Potter puts a lump of clay on the wheel
and fingers spin out another dish
in which night can gather salty dew;

you leave through the clearing, through violet mist,
and shrivelled hemp and raspberry canes surround you
like awaiting falling stars.

Peter Bruveris (born 1957) Latvia
Translated by Inara Cedrins
Source: CALQUE

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