At your door
I left everything—
the house-mermaids, the psalms,
the kites and paper boats.
I left everything at your door
when I left you
yesterday.
The deeper I go
the longer grow my hair and fingernails.
The deeper I go
the more often I see
your shadow behind me.
The earth revolves
like a winter or summer fruit.
Before my eyes, sun and autumn happen.
Before my eyes and the gold
of the whole world—
only you
with me.
Between you and me—a sign,
a theater on tour,
a silver sword,
a lost crow.
Between you and me—a rainbow.
Your lovers are many and do not know me.
Your things are everywhere—
your trophies,
your medals,
your servants,
your shoe-shiners,
your plantations,
your compatriots,
your books,
your streets,
your statues.
I see them and forget them.
When demonstrations roar,
when armies are crushed,
when screams and words of justice fill the air,
I know you are near.
When there is weeping, when bread is trampled
and roads are deserted
and the Marseillaise begins,
I hear your voice.
When I hear your voice,
when I hear the horns of hunters,
I hear your silence.
When ships waver
and hotel sign-boards flash
and exports and imports cross
and throats are parched,
I glimpse your body.
When I undress before a mirror,
when I laugh or frown,
when I cover my hand with my hand,
when I drown in a mirror,
I see you.
When singing possesses me
on white evenings,
when, before I sleep,
I travel road after road
I feel your panting breath.
Even when I tire of talking
and the road is short,
I feel you behind me.
I lose you in days of work,
but still you find me.
I bury you in strolls
or in words
or in conversation,
but still you lift up your head.
I scatter you in laughter and gestures,
among plates of meat and vegetables,
among headlines and projects,
but still you appear before me.
I hide you among papers and letters,
I hold you in my arms
or between my lips.
Yet between one twitch and another
you expose me.
I crucify you with luck,
with all the numbers that lose and win,
and you stay near me.
I imprison you in safes
or in the boxes of my sorrow,
and still you escape.
I enter with you.
I exit with you,
and still you lead me on.
I betray you in public squares,
in cafes,
at the movies,
at celebrations,
in congregations,
inside shops and markets,
with people or without people.
I trade something for nothing,
and still you forgive me.
There is no way to escape,
no place, no time.
Even the planets are no refuge.
I stand on a summit.
Between the earth and myself,
there is space enough for murder.
Between the earth and myself,
there is time enough for hatred.
Between the earth and myself,
there is you.
Will you push me from the summit
with just a touch of your hand?
Will you push me?
I left everything—
the house-mermaids, the psalms,
the kites and paper boats.
I left everything at your door
when I left you
yesterday.
The deeper I go
the longer grow my hair and fingernails.
The deeper I go
the more often I see
your shadow behind me.
The earth revolves
like a winter or summer fruit.
Before my eyes, sun and autumn happen.
Before my eyes and the gold
of the whole world—
only you
with me.
Between you and me—a sign,
a theater on tour,
a silver sword,
a lost crow.
Between you and me—a rainbow.
Your lovers are many and do not know me.
Your things are everywhere—
your trophies,
your medals,
your servants,
your shoe-shiners,
your plantations,
your compatriots,
your books,
your streets,
your statues.
I see them and forget them.
When demonstrations roar,
when armies are crushed,
when screams and words of justice fill the air,
I know you are near.
When there is weeping, when bread is trampled
and roads are deserted
and the Marseillaise begins,
I hear your voice.
When I hear your voice,
when I hear the horns of hunters,
I hear your silence.
When ships waver
and hotel sign-boards flash
and exports and imports cross
and throats are parched,
I glimpse your body.
When I undress before a mirror,
when I laugh or frown,
when I cover my hand with my hand,
when I drown in a mirror,
I see you.
When singing possesses me
on white evenings,
when, before I sleep,
I travel road after road
I feel your panting breath.
Even when I tire of talking
and the road is short,
I feel you behind me.
I lose you in days of work,
but still you find me.
I bury you in strolls
or in words
or in conversation,
but still you lift up your head.
I scatter you in laughter and gestures,
among plates of meat and vegetables,
among headlines and projects,
but still you appear before me.
I hide you among papers and letters,
I hold you in my arms
or between my lips.
Yet between one twitch and another
you expose me.
I crucify you with luck,
with all the numbers that lose and win,
and you stay near me.
I imprison you in safes
or in the boxes of my sorrow,
and still you escape.
I enter with you.
I exit with you,
and still you lead me on.
I betray you in public squares,
in cafes,
at the movies,
at celebrations,
in congregations,
inside shops and markets,
with people or without people.
I trade something for nothing,
and still you forgive me.
There is no way to escape,
no place, no time.
Even the planets are no refuge.
I stand on a summit.
Between the earth and myself,
there is space enough for murder.
Between the earth and myself,
there is time enough for hatred.
Between the earth and myself,
there is you.
Will you push me from the summit
with just a touch of your hand?
Will you push me?