V I have spoken of you in old times With wet nurses and veteran rebels From where your beastly sorrow comes The brilliance of trembling water on your face And why it must be that I come near you I who dont want love but want the wind But want the gallop of the uncovered, upright sea And none had heard of you Neither dittany nor wild mushroom Of Cretan highlands, none Only God grants and guides your hand to me Here and there, carefully around the whole turn Of the faces seashore, the bay, the hair On the hill rippling off to the left Your body in the stance of the solitary pine Eyes of pride and of transparent Depth, in the house with an old china cabinet Of yellow lace and cypress wood Alone I wait for where youll first appear High on the veranda or under the gardens cobblestones With the horse of the saint and the egg of Easter Like from a wrecked wall painting Big as the little life wanted you, To hold within a little candle the stentorian volcanic glow So no one will have seen or heard Anything about you in the wilderness of dilapidated houses Neither the buried ancestors at the edge of the garden fence Nor the old woman with all her herbs Of you, only I, and maybe the music That is concealed inside me but shall return more strongly Of you, the unformed breast of twelve years Turning toward the future and the red crater Of you, a bitter odor finds the body And like a pin punctures memory And here the soil, here the doves, here our ancient earth. VI I have seen much and ...
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