I wander home
lost to the world
wrapped up against the cold
in my thoughts.
unbidden
the Heavens
blaze
above me
But I pay them
no attention.
The world
covered in
the soft frost
of sorrow.
Only to be
stopped
by a lost soul
(loster than I?)
a Serbian
not knowing
where he’s going
or which direction
home is in.
Lost in language
directions are useless
so I walk him
in the general direction
of where
home should be.
Seeing the poetry book
clasped in my hand
he launches
into verse after verse
and some battle
lost so long ago
but still flashing
in his eyes
alive as
if 1389
were only
yesterday.
He cries
at this old defeat
made new
by his tongue
his syllables
a field of blackbirds.
We arrive
at where
I know
he would not be
lost.
Home beckons
across the water
a sleeping daughter
and a wakening wife
dreaming of his return.
He wants to pay me
for my trouble!
I decline:
“No trouble! ”
Try to tell him
the passion of the poem
more payment
than could have been
hoped for.
He is upset
until...
“Look! ” he says
offering me the moon
(unseen by me
in sorrow) .
A moon so suddenly
throws off her clouds
and stands
naked before us.
“She is beautiful
...yes? ”
The naked moon
now hides shyly
behind a massive
tower block
and now peeps out
the other side.
I take his thanks
sweet in his unknown tongue.
I take his gift
of the moon
and walk home
with the river
running beside me
keeping up a non-stop conversation.
Time flows
under the bridge.
Finally I arrive
at where I should be
the gift
of his moon
still tightly
held in my mind.
You tell a story about a stranger in the night, poetry, a naked moon involved, as if it happened in that year anno 1389... It sounds romantic and nostalgic - wandering to home - no cars, no public transport, lost to the world - two stranger becoming more rich with now money exchange - just words...Very well penned!
'The soft frost of sorrow.' is beautiful, as is 'his moon still tightly held in my mind'. A poignant bitter-sweet story that demands several readings. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such gifts as the gift of the moon are what make life bareable, help us to deal with sorrow, keep going. If it were not for these gifts, the flow of the river would become too inviting...but the moon, peeping out from behind the buildings, casting off her clouds for a moment...leads us home, to safety for one more night. I would weep at such a gift, and rejoice.