Or — maybe he never existed at all?!
Maybe there was only
into a lake
and the melting
into a lake
and their merging
Cold. A crack
behind gray stands of aspen
in the forest. Something was broken
under the frosty sky.
Yes, did he exist at all?
Still, still he lived! — Oh how a chick pecks
the heart, like an eggshell, from the inside.
Already it sticks out its chest:
yes, we had, we had such a man,
a broadcasting tower in the swamp,
a man standing on a hill surrounded by lowlands!
No, no, by no means that!
In the name of the most common Thursday —
not that myth, that pompous and great one.
He is ours, and let us not make of ourselves
that myth, that pompous and great one.
He is ours — a small rippling lake.
He is ours — snow into a rippling lake.
A small lake that tries not to freeze,
keep itself and keep the forest around it,
keep the world in its only mirror.
We are one. A lake is in the forest and the forest is in a lake.
We are one. A lake rises into snow and snow falls into a lake.
And only a crack.
In the forest or in the lake? A wooden heart? An icy cover?
Only not that myth, that pompous and great one
here under the silent, grieving white
Translated by Jüri Talvet and H. L. Hix
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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