the candle trays are heavy
I hardly find my way among dead and alive
holding a drop of new light
crossing myself with my hand still warm
people stand shoulder to shoulder
the bell-ringer pulls down the rope
I’m beginning to feel the earth’s silence
candle flames are sizzling in the sand
upright or bending
separated or united
I get out into the sunlight
slowly stepping over the grass
an old cross raises in the church’s yard
an apple tree had grown beside it
leaning completely towards sunrise
almost touching the stone
I come back under vaults
crossing myself again
breathing much deeper
I hide in a Sunday’s shell,
a frosty and white holiday,
my thoughts are locked in a warm cellar,
mice are nibbling in the satchel with memories.
Because of too much silence
I dream that roosters sing,
waking up wrapped in a down pillow,
amidst roots of writhed wings
still ticking slowly
on their first flight.
Electric bells toll in the rain,
heavy scales raise upon me
knocking the dimmed windows.
Life is like marching slowly
over tiny stones.
My eyelids are crumpling
like lemon skins squeezed
until the very last,
a hidden flame is dripping
through open and bitter pores.
Incense is burning in the chapel,
my knees’ traces
scatter in cinders
near the iron stove,
a white sun glides
upon pew arms.
At snowfield’s edge
roofs are fuming, trains are running,
people on the corridors
are clutching the window bars
hand after hand,
a thread of words tightens,
bells are tolling for vespers
closer and closer.
I remember that storks left that place
and their nests didn’t turn green.
Walking in the moonlit field
I forgot were was the stream with ruby fish,
somewhere close to the juicy meadow,
after a while brickmakers came there
to dig the riverbed
then glassy sands swallowed the sun
like hungry white bones.
Time stood still
in a dry willow log
rolling on my way,
only stones remained in their roots.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the church,
I’ll place my palm in the bell’s shadow,
maybe it will toll for noon.