Elegy

About a year has passed. I've returned to the place of the battle,
to its birds that have learned their unfolding of wings 
						 from a subtle
lift of a surprised eyebrow, or perhaps from a razor blade
- wings, now the shade of early twilight, now of state 
						 bad blood.

Now the place is abuzz with trading
		 	in your ankles's remanants, bronzes
of sunburnt breastplates, dying laughter, bruises,
rumors of fresh reserves, memories of high treason,
laundered banners with imprints of the many
	     				who since have risen.

All's overgrown with people. A ruin's a rather stubborn
architectural style. And the hearts's distinction
			 	from a pitch-black cavern
isn't that great; not great enough to fear
that we may collide again like blind eggs somewhere.

At sunrise, when nobody stares at one's face, I often,
set out on foot to a monument cast in molten
lengthy bad dreams. And it says on the plinth "commander
in chief." But it reads "in grief," or "in brief,"
				 	or "in going under."

1985, translated by the author.


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