He fell in love for good with the blind girl,
was closing his ears to avoid words of people.
'You’ll find your light', he gave her an oath
but didn’t say the light would be of his eyes.
She found her light but wept seeing he became
blind. 'You’ll find your light', she gave him an oath
but didn’t say the light would come from her eyes.
Now both are one-eyed and stare at happiness,
yet so many two-eyed persons see no happiness.
Since then both lived happily, better than us, since
we don’t exchange glances, namely first love letters,
our deception covers the misery with artificial villages*.
****
'What sort of martyrdom is love? ' they answer to us:
'Love is a cob, that a sickle ruthlessly reaps,
is tightly bundled up, then its skin is chapped,
smashed by millstones it becomes flour, kneaded
by terrible fists becomes dough, is put in fire furnace
to give a bread for eating but it enters your bloodstream
works in you, as a holy communion, the body and blood.
Love is the heroic herself: if you, two-eyed persons, steal
our seed, then we, the one-eyed ones, shall irrigate it.'
© JosephJosephides
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem