THURSDAY
I saw her die many times
sometimes crying in my arms
sometimes in a stranger’s arms
sometimes alone, naked;
in this way, she lived with me.
Now I know, at last, that nothing exists further
and I wait.
If I grieve, it is my personal matter
like the feelings for simple things as these
and as they say we have gone beyond them;
and yet I’m still sorry because
I too never became (who I wished I would)
like the grass that I heard sprouting
near a pine tree at night;
because I didn’t follow the sea
another night when the water receded
gently drinking its own bitterness
and I never understood, when I groped the damp seaweed,
how much honour remains in the man’s hands
All these went by, slowly and conclusively
like the barges with their faded names
HELEN OF SPARTA, TYRANNOS, GLORIA MUNDI
they went by under the bridges beyond the chimneys
with two stooping men at the prow and the stern
naked to the waist
they went by, I can’t discern anything, in the morning fog
the sheep curled and ruminating were hardly visible
neither does the moon, over the river
that waits;
just seven spears plunged in the water
stagnant and without blood
and sometimes on the flagstones solemnly lit
under the cross-eyed tower
painted with red and yellow pencil
the Nazarene showing his wound.
‘Don’t throw your hearts to the dogs.
Don’t throw your hearts to the dogs.’
Her voice sinks with the stroke of the clock;
your will, I sought your will.

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