And if tomorrow I forget the words,
And only rain disturbs the quiet morning,
I’ll stand before the mirror and, perhaps,
Know life is merciless — and life is right.
Light from the window will fall on my hair —
A thief of dim summer slipping in;
But it, like me, will never tell the secret
Of what the silence guards so dearly.
And in gray eyes that mirror back a question
There will be no rush, no fever, no unrest.
A mystery burned out in colorless fire
Will be as quiet as tiny drops of tears.
And I shall feel so piercingly sorry for the word,
For the song gone still, its tune forgotten,
Perhaps carried away at morning’s ebb
By a clear wave into the sky’s far distance.
And barely reconciled to this loss,
I’ll turn sad, transparent, weak of will,
So you will never know how terribly it hurts
When in the morning one forgets the words.
* * *
Red silk, torero, macho —
Such a man can carry all.
I watch and nearly weep,
And pay for everything in full.
The furious bull, excited,
The crack of Castilian castanets,
Like an unborn infant,
A ticket to the impossible.
A view of Toledo, the spirit of Madrid,
The roar of ecstatic stands,
Compassion merely for appearance.
Macho — magician, player, sorcerer.
My torero snaps his fingers,
And silence falls at once.
He has no need for fear:
I am the only one in red.
A flamingo’s cry, the beat of flamenco,
The sound of guitars, the taste of love.
A bare knee, suddenly revealed,
Will set the blood on fire.
The bull wheezes, the crowd groans,
Nervous trembling, like wine.
Passions wake the quiet pool
That is at one with macho.
The red silk of my mantilla
Has torn along the edges.
My torero gave me wings:
You are my macho — I am yours!
* * *
And the word spoken by accident,
And the phrase dropped unawares,
And thoughts, disconnected and foolish,
Pinned with a safety pin against the evil eye.
And in the night, like peals of thunder,
And wounded stars falling like stones,
And fear that no one will be home,
Or perhaps home — but not beside me.
And a shiver through the body, and skin gone cold,
And a knock at the window, like a knock on heaven’s gate.
And I stand there, pressed against the hallway wall,
Numb, awaiting the miracle.
And every moment my hope keeps melting,
And the bulb gives light but no warmth,
A draft through the little window turns
Yesterday’s useless newspapers.
And then the bell — an anxious siren,
A slight recoil, as if struck on rocks,
The treacherously trembling knee,
And the heart began to pound and fell.
And fingers cramped in a spasm
Clutched the edge of something lace,
And the guttural cry of a proud wanderer
Frozen by the doorframe,
And a step forward, and the key twice left,
When some unknown force is leading…
A queen hurled down into the abyss
Opened the door and let you in.
* * *
If people could fly like birds,
If cats could walk like people,
The principle of harmony would break —
Of mysteries, hints, and preludes to love.
The black palate of the night station,
Quiet tears of final farewells.
You never told him anything;
Moments simply folded into sonnets.
Anxious fingers clasped by pain —
Why do you cry, sad diva?
Bound by a strange and aching love,
You remain alone, orphaned.
If he could turn into an abyss,
If you descended as sun upon waves…
But seeing off a beloved man,
Is it worth crying? Come now. Enough.
* * *
The sun broke, the window cracked,
A heart knocked in it like a magpie.
And snow fell, out of season, before its time,
While people, all in all, did not care.
They walked on, silent as always,
Not noticing the cold of the Universe;
Only I stood, down on one knee,
Before the sky where a star had scattered.
And I cried out: “Lord, forgive!”
But how can one make out faces without the sun?
And angels and birds answered me
In the broken falsetto of a travesty.
And nothing in the world remained,
Only the air tore like a web —
A colorless, joyless picture
When everyone leaves, every one of them.
* * *
I cannot knock my way to heaven,
Nor shout it open — my voice will fail;
An impassable forest will grow,
The enemy will lie in circular siege.
All the roads will overgrow with weeds.
The shutters will cut off oxygen.
There is no reaching the goal, no reaching it.
Let me pray before a little icon.
Not to embrace, not to turn back,
Not to hear my name taken in vain,
Not to cross invisible barriers,
I do not breathe, I do not sleep, I do not paint.
Not to love, not to melt against a shoulder,
Not to gasp for hot air with our mouths.
No shield is with me, and no sword
Through the long, cold nights.
Not to touch a temple with my fingers,
Not to taste either wine or bread.
The road is far too long —
The one that leads to heaven without you.
