Classic Poem

It is enough for me to
have the children of my comrades.
Their love is bread and wine.
From the harvest
I have provisions equal to the day
and can anticipate
the feast of harvest whenever
a new light shines
in my village.

I have never been in love
with the dead.
Neither with perfumery, gold,
wine and treasures.
A wizened bat is born
out of such love.
Where is He who destroys,
and gives life?
Where is He who restores
His creation cleansing him
with oil and sulphur
from the stench of pus?
Where is He who destroys,
gives life, and restores
by bringing forth young eagles
again from the progeny
of slaves?
Now the child, bearing no
resemblance to father and mother,
disowns both.

How can our house be cleft
in two with the sea flowing
between old and new?
With a scream, a ripping
of the womb, tearing of veins?
Why are we, who are under
one roof, divided by
seas, walls, deserts
of cold ash and ice?

How lightly they cross the bridge
in the morning.
My ribs, a bridge, stretch out for them,
reaching from the caves, from the swamps
of the East to the new East.

My ribs — a steady bridge for them.
" They'll pass and you will stay alone,
a relic left by priests
to the winds that lash you. "

Silence, owl, beating inside by breast!
What does this owl of history
demand of me?
In my coffers are countless
treasures:
joy in the gift of hands,
joy in the essence of life,
joy in memory and faith.
Embers and wine.

I have the children of my comrades.
And their love is bread and wine.

From the harvest I have provisions
equal to the day
And it is enough for me
to anticipate the feast of the harvest.

I do not fear your coming,
season of snow,
for I have stores enough
of embers and wine.