Evening Song

“I shall leave this world
the way I came — without a home,
as calm as the song
that drifts a memory no one needs.”

“Orphan Song”, D. Debelyanov

At times faint memories will swoop on me
and I will dry the water in my weakened eyes.
I’ll crumple like leaves my days that have fallen.
They will taste of salt, and they will taste of gall.

In the shade of time I’ll stretch out and lie.
I’ll watch from the sidelines as long as I please.
My trembling hand — I’ll reach it out
and through a smile I’ll touch the days gone by.

And I won’t need memories for walking sticks,
nor old things for crutches, nor for spectacles.
I’ll be there, in a world not made of words,
in which I carried in my body a soul as well.

Then, and where the jokes would brush against me,
and I’d flare with desires and laugh till I was senseless.
In evenings when the games began,
and in nights of warmth, of touch and passion.

I’ll find myself again on unknown roads,
stopping in unfamiliar towns,
chasing dust clouds, myths and secrets.
I’ll meet new people, hear new voices.

But this magic will no longer bring me back
to lost lands, to forgotten mists,
though it comes by night to hold me close,
to wake me, then to watch me and keep still.

I’ll rise again at morning, cold and neat,
in the mirror I will see the eyes — my eyes,
for a moment I’ll know them. And they will startle me,
still reddened, yet almost going out.

With a long stride I’ll step over memories. And the threshold.
I’ll smile at a neighbour. And he will say hello.
“Magic…” I’ll think to myself,
“…is better left with the magicians…”,
I’ll shrug my shoulders and time will carry on.

2009