Someday we will be the ancients, Sophocles and such we refer to.
The erudite Plato, all of us having suffered at
some point in our lives for our words, our positions, our postulations which differ from those theorems more widely accepted.
But, right now it is the cool of an unrepressed
early Fall and we are sitting in the dark on the lawn of a college campus having just read poems to college students.
You take your harmonica from your pocket and
start to play a song for me.
The wind and the traffic, the rustle of still green tree leaves take on some of the melody.
I lay back into the grass to listen and then see them…
All of these brilliant, amazing stars present in
this sweet instance of living…
All of them directly above this now.
I think in my mind, all of them must be here to hear you play harmonica, to settle into the melodies of the universe.
100 stars perhaps older than Hippocrates or the Pythagorean Theorem.
Older than granite, fire, warfare, diplomacy or peace.
Older than education.
Or, skin, flesh, touch.
100 stars burning without regret in the tumultuous new night sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem