The Winds

The winds,

the winds,

the winds

the winds with their four shafts

that pierce the world,

and I,

pinned somewhere

in this world’s herbarium.

To the East – the sunrise and the wisdom

of the morn, which

some time or another

will comprehend the meaning

of the dying shadow,

when the clock

restrains its hands at twelve.

And then a man can touch

his true love. And the son

can hug his father.

And the mother can bring food

to the stranger’s child.

The cherry tree can bloom. And the porcelain

can chime, a trice before

rushing down

to gain upon

its shadow.

To the West – the sunset

and the nocturnal afterglow

of seething cities,

the progress

of the cunning

modern lords

and the silent grief of loneliness,

sleeping

in the prostyles of the banks…

The benefactors, with the lustre

of their generosity,

being spilled and strewing out and sparkling

before the cameras. And the screaming

leftovers of the feasts,

feeding up the landfills

of the conscience

of homo consumericus.

To the North, the freezing consummation

of sights and people…

I don’t know if their thoughts

are also crystal clear,

but I hear,

they nurture there a spirit

who can raise a mountain

if there’s an ant’s leg

under it.

And arrange that lace of clouds,

scattered over the horizon,

so unnarangeable –

to make the storm

look painted

by an angel.

To the South, the heat of the primordial conception,

of the crawling creatures, and the haze,

the heady scent

of a beginning,

of a cradle and an infant’s crying,

and of riches

sparkling like a diamond

on the neck

of every traveler.

Moon and Sun,

still in love,

but apart. Grieving

for a letter unreceived.

And a word, hurled like a javelin,

to tear up

the silence under the equator.

The winds,

the winds,

the winds,

the winds are four,

and I am nailed to their crossroads.

In the whirl of living slow

and in the center of old Balkans,

folded just like crimps

and pulled up

to the knees

of my continent.

I’ve gone into the deepest

of the black sea,

and its azure

is wrapping me into the silk

of clouds, so white.

And the mountains humble me.

I’m small.

So small –

the core of what it means

to be a wind yourself,

a road, a crossroads.

And fuse

with your own being.