The Golden Age Poem by Dan Danila

When I was a pale boy, the world
was a bewitched and mindful place,
with melted gold-light in the eyes
and running over shells ashore
to catch an echo or a rainbow.

Life was a grave and serious play:
I built of sand a narrow castle
for seven wounded tin-plate soldiers,
a wooden mettlesome chess queen
and other little hearted shadows.

I had friends and a lot of time
to listen how the fountains speak
and learn by heart the subtile hours
when words light up the foggy day
to comfort us in our stillness.

Like a long fever was the spring:
I built my couch of calm between
the tears and laughings of the play
and dreams of flying over shelters,
then I returned enriched, unheard.

I learned the ardor of the clay
to hide away a tiny treasure,
a stone with letters or a bone
like magic amulets and clues,
to speak with wizards like a bird.

One day, ashamed, I understood
the mortal way of our world,
for every year bore other fruits,
there to remain, forever sweet,
like rain and tear are not the same.

And every tale must end somehow,
remain behind, yet sometimes fear,
a sleepless owl is calling loud
and like an anchor I must dive
into the past, a boundless ocean.