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The Soul Returning



Never
wanted
that

never
wanted
to be
I
me

everything
by
chance

poem
called
a poem

pain
called
something
else

coming
going
by
itself

names
always
a trouble

but somewhere and with something you must begin

always stumbling
at words
at me
at names
at the nameless

in reality there is no MUST there is
nothing you must begin or end

no must
no need to
exist
no needs before
you exist
need something

o
little flames
in empty space
little islands in the empty ocean
air
water
clouds
song
have more understanding
than I have
be more
than I am

words
have more understanding
than you have

be open
stay open
earth air
islands
spaces

here is the beginning
here
it has begun

here
and everywhere
a beginning
an end
begun
together

a beginning
an end
in roots
as well as leaves
in stamina
as well as pistils

leaves
treetops

in reality everything is falling we all are falling that is the same as turning around coming and going being and not being and because of that the most stupid questions are where from for what a purpose why for whose sake

in reality I have never wanted to speak to write poems about anything other than free fall freedom but if I want to look out there is something a snowstorm or a huge white bird taking flight I cannot say where from or where to if I want to look I am small and silly and there is a cold pane between me and the darkness and I cannot even shout into that night of snow and birds into that white birdfeather-darkness the only word that would explain everything be the beginning of everything

I know I am small and silly I am old and tired I was a poet I was I but in reality there was no me there was only this word this dreadful white word I have bent down to see through this evening this everlasting snowstorm to look through myself throught the dark windowpane and dark space through it all through myself and through my non-existence

but there is
no answer
because
there was
no question

the owl flies up
cranes are
flying overhead
I lie
under the alder-trees
in tears

sacred
earth
sacred heaven

now
suddenly
forever

a little flame
two eyes
taking wing
from the granary roof
from the ship mast

what what
are you full of
night of
snowstorm

in reality I had to write something else this something else was nearly ready but there was no beginning no beginning and no title

titles are not important but beginning how can something be without a beginning although I do not name it do not call it a poem a cycle of poems an elegy an incantation a spell a piece of shamanism a bullshit modern poem but beginning a beginning is

here
I am now
here
in the

beginning

from beginning
to end
always

in reality tomorrow I should go to Tallinn to the capital to a meeting of the Writers' Union where they will discuss problems of poetry my wife and mother-in-law ask me if I can stay at home if I can just not go whether there will be worries what people in the Writers' union will think of me and what they should say if there is a call from the Writers' Union

in reality everything is much simpler I simply do not exist have not existed for a long time already Jaan Kaplinski or whatever was his name was came drove through the snowy forest stopped to listen to the snowstorm and everything changed into birds and poems he himself too

he
himself
too

let the poems themselves have a meeting let them discuss poets' problems they know better they make somebody a poet they come if they will as they will when they will there is nothing else we should discuss at a poets' meeting but the poems will never tell you that

a word comes throu
gh the windy ni
ght and cuts yo
u in two

in reality stupidity is as strange as wisdom but I am rarely able to understand it

I would like to understand stupidity

I would like to be absent from writers' meetings

if I would like anything at all I
would like
to listen
to hear
to come
through
the
forest
to bow
into the
darkness
and
take
two handfuls of

white
snow

but
I stumble
on myself
as on wet stones
in the Ahja river
of my childhood
but this is
even more
than
the Ahja

I wanted to write something that would be the same as what the shaman sings when the soul somebody's soul is gone is astray and the shaman must go and look for it somewhere in another world and bring it back maybe it is possible to call the soul back with a song with a poem too

in reality I can perhaps say that this dreadful white word behind the windowpane is the soul resting there in the snowstorm head covered by the soft white wings of its own non-existence
eyes closed
dreaming of
something

but perhaps you are dreaming yourself and your soul a soul is longing to see you and to wake you from the other side of that darkness

a soul
a big
water
coming
from the
beginning

pure
simple
big
confidence
that the voice
has reached it
come back
through
the life
that wasn't
really
a life
up to the very
end of
oblivion

everything is different but we can ask where from where to and why we are just coming going and falling through daytimes and nighttimes and shadows are falling on us and through us

shadows of fire
shadows of water
shadows of rain
shadows of eclipses
shadows of makeshift animals
on a whitewashed
hospital
wall
shadow theatre
theatre
of
eclipses

I do not know whether they understand it I don't but I feel this shadow that is more than just a shadow darkness the cold polished pane of darkness and I am small and silly and always miss the direction although I am not so stupid as to say it must be downward or downhill not to speak of life and death

simply
the dog whines
behind the door
the old spinning wheel
falls apart
my two boys
are playing
in the sandbox
with broken
spoons

David Oistrakh
is playing
in a sandpit
with a broken violin

but me
forme
how long yet
all this

this voice
that
came back
remaining
as snow
as ice

in reality poetry is not poetry at all even less is it literature something defined obligatory something that has to be just this way and not another

in reality there is much more much more than sorrow and joy this getting lighter getting darker in the forest and in the apple orchard your playground and that of your children something just here that remains unknown to you throughout your life

and this bird this bird which I am listening to how can we summon it through this icy cold darkness

although I know it's not really like that

but I just like being a shadow a flame in this big dark wind

how can we
forget
again and again
these other
landscapes
and rivers
from
who knows where
going
who knows where

although

I have
been there

although
although

I have
met
known them

although

I don't know
whether it means
above
on
in
out

what has
meaning
is only
to reconcile yourself
with these landscapes
people
if you can
find
any

are there
any borders
between
oneself
and something
somebody
else

am I standing
in a sluice-gate
in a furnace-mouth
am I
burning
or flowing

flame
fire-
fall
water-
fall
roaring
all
around

burnt birds
under
another heaven
singing
the same
unfinished
song
drowned fish
laughing
over the
bones
of fishermen

what a joy
that
quenches
love
and hate

in a
furnace mouth
in a
sluice-gate
high up
deep down

everything
burnt
flown
forgotten

hills
like stones
pebbles
or sand
tumbled
drifted
into valleys

clover
growing
on tracks

one single
time-cricket
sawing
on both sides
of the
threshold of
hearing

beyond
the window
snow melting
into
strange
round
drops

you were
away
so long
you were
so long
coming back

what a
corner
of the house
what a
fireplace
a pebble
underfoot
does still
recognize
you

amidst this
echoeless
listlessness
if you
yourself
are a part
a particle
of this
listlessness

you
a part
of
it
them
us
all

a voice
is
always
on the
other side
here
deep down

but it
does not
speak
does not
answer

who hasn't
called the
ladybird
by
its name
or an owl
from the night
a flame
from the fire

called home
your
self
your
soul

jaan
little jaan
johnny

come home souls come home come home souls

but
nobody
speaks
answers

ladybird has
flown
away

time
flown
away
reached
its end

everything
burnt
flown
forgotten

they believed that the ladybird knew the way from one world to another so it could show the way home to one who was lost they believed that the souls of the dead visited the living

in poetry it would be so easy to say that I believe it too but I can't do that because the relationship betwen ladybirds and people between living and dead is much more complicated after all unfortunately this relationship seems not to exist any more we are separated from everybody else free from everybody else from ladybirds other worlds from the dead and living from the soul from our own soul

and it is of little help if I write a poem or something heaven knows what with the title the soul returning if I even put a bowl with gruel in the sauna loft I still have a sauna and the sauna has aloft and it's me who goes out in the darkness and summons the souls calls them back home

but the Estonian people banished their souls banished them and let pastors and priests exorcise them cut down the sacred trees and broke the stones with fire in order to get a strip of land to cultivate what else could he do the poor boor who hoped that now finally he could buy freedom that he could buy himself free with money with hard work with business with cheating with writing with singing with making music with staging plays ...

but freedom one can buy and sell has a price its price is a signature and something more something tiny a soul a little soul that lived in a linden tree or a juniper or behind the old oven and ate a bit of everything fresh be it meat milk or new grain it was this same soul that was the price of freedom svoboda freiheit and of course of gratitude prayers songs and songfestivals

Let us praise our Emperor
let us honour Alexander
who has pitied us poor people
who has had Mercy upon the miserable
heard the wailing of the wretched
seen the tears of the dispossed

but to your souls to your soul you Estonian people said go away from here go to a place where the foot of man never will step and the soul answered o how could I who have lived in this tree for two thousand years have thought that I would have to leave it

when the soul asked you where must I go you said go to the Ghost Island the soul answered there are so many of us there already that there is no place even for a needle to stand but nevertheless you banished it

boor and dandy dandy and boor what is the difference who remained who has left what is the difference between God and matter heaven and hell modern and postmodern lower middle and upper middle Apolla and Dionysus pentecostal and episcopal conservative and liberal where is the soul nothing has a soul nobody has a soul

everything is soullless everything without a soul bread and circuses theatre and movies literature and art ideas and problems worries and victories spirit and power

in reality everything is so full of emptiness that I cannot understand how something can exist and last at all how can we live this life that is no life at all is nothing at all how can everything be as if nothing else existed as if this emptiness did not exist in us nor the strange little dot caught in this world-bubble where everything except us is so new still unborn still to be born where

everything
reaches
outside
itself

everything
is
always
ready
to die
to be
reborn

this voice
this word
this
sprouting
spore
of a fern

welcome
welcome
kaplinski
welcome
spores
seeds
water-
drops on
pistils
welcome
body
welcome
mind
me and
you
welcome
light
welcome
winter
welcome
everything
forgotten
unforgettable
today
tomorrow
always

angry thoughts angry words rising to the surface bubbles on black marsh water must I say welcome to you too comers and goers decaying body in decaying bed to the truth that the soul is astray and you cannot find sleep that everyone goes turns around without a soul breathing air where there is no soul or spirit left falling little by little swifter and swifter from their sauna loft sauna bench their house their car with their sauna with their car with their self through this town through this country through these streets and avenues angry comers angry goers angry streets full of angry people and angry cars rising to the surface rising or falling into an empty wind through clean dark marsh water

are they are we more than these thought bubbles welcome then welcome and goodbye drink us roots breathe us leaves blow us away wind blow us into this dance of dust particles that is neither better nor worse with us or without us and let us never want to be something else that something else

I don't know
why
I am
there
why
I don't know
I am
there
I don't
know
what
I know
who
what
I am
whether
if
I am
at all

what
pro-
noun
must I
use
when
nothing
remains
nor
is

a
huge
empty
world
always
opening
into huge
eyes
that do
not see
anything
but light

I have never been able I never could say a word without keeping this in mind however I couldn't not say these words is it to find some ground under my feet a centre for my world a centre that does not exist that cannot exist why then do we seek it or do we seek something else something hidden under a false name in a false place a fragment of real understanding that would clear away this cataract between us and the emptimess

we see something but it is not light we see because we do not see light everything every one of us is a fragment of something I cannot but call light although I know there is no darkness it cannot reach there is no darkness but seen from our side everything is just fragments of darkness made of shards of light around us separating us from everything else and from ourselves words from meanings and there is no answer to the question why real becomes unreal only words words words deceptive empty words verbs proverbs adverbs nouns pronouns going on around us and if there is something connecting us it is the wind of these wings the words reach somewhere our sight doesn't reach one can put more things together from words than there is in them or in us the words are the first cutting through this grey cataract words can sometimes take flight and arrive somewhere they call us to follow them but we don't go we are looking for the opening that is not yet closed and when we see what is below and  what is above we are frightened and turn back we cling to everything to a church tower an exclamation mark a spider's web to stop falling into this reverberating sea of petals into billows suddenly so near and then everyhting goes off and the words some back tired and compliant as a poem or a recollection as notes on a scale or swallows on a wire and only the depth once experienced once seen remains as a humming an outstretched hand on the bottom of our memory as a cry for help to accompany us to the very end

empty stupid dear words who always cover my wounds with your voiceless dappled wings o light light have you spoken to me in my own tiny flakes of words

world
not yet
awake
to
any dream
any sleep
to any
shadowy stripe
of memory
to despair
this is
our only hope
that somebody
something
comes
cuts
the wrong soul
from the
wrong body
takes
apart
the world
knitted together
in the
wrong way
bringing back
the only
true
soul

life is sad endless watching of the fire putting the fire to bed waking fire up from evening to evening morning to morning from generation to generation from an old house into a new house but it is always older than us we are its we are your children's children old good sad fire burning is dying and sadness the sadness of a flame in the black eyes of the world sadness of life itself because of its beginning and after the end without a beginning and without an end simply as it is in this wonder that shines from outside into all things that shines from inside out of all things is there a time is there a name is there an eye for this sole this most wonderful thing that is

around which
is
still circling
your SELF
bewitched
into
a word
your personality
your
eye
to see
memory
to keep
itself
in memory
like a flock
of butterflies
gloworms
fireworks
through
bonfires
on
midsummer
night
your
night
Jaan
John

suddenly you discover that your world and your self have no centre you have no place which you can stand and call home these souls your own lost soul but what does this HOME mean everything is let loose and awakes into life stones into seagulls sand into sandpipers

and suddenly you see that nothing even yourself is either inside or outside but on the border in the present time in wind that being itself is but a border where the sparks of life thought and words light for an instant like moths which have flown into fire and then ash falls down from the blade of fire always on the side where WAS is written and from the other side come new butterflies new lives new loves and they too catch fire like moths which have flown into lamplight which means they are caught by fire burnt into ash this is beautiful and terrible the only question is who can see it is it a similar spark a speck of spacedust leaving a fiery trace seen on the backdrop of a constellation

and this question grows bigger grows into an eclipse covering the moon covering the stars covering meaning so that finally over your head there is only a huge black eye reflecting this awkward half-articulate question your doubt in the world and in yourself a spider's thread coming carried by wind from somewhere on the other side which goes through all that you believed is firm and real but has not been for a long long time

this huge black eye of another heaven full of questions full of doubt full of the same endless thirst that no philosophy no literature no art can quench it is the thirst of the world itself of all the cells roots mouths and intestines for fire thirst of life for life this thirst and yet something else something is wrong something is false the centre is not in the centre the circle is not round a cause cannot have an effect Achilles cannot reach the turtle the arrow stands in every instant at a different place and all Cretans are liars they say it themselves as I too

believe no sentences including this one do not believe Jaan Kaplinski himself and his poems he hasn't believed himself for many years now but he doesn't know what this really means this him this self and this believing two points and a line but if neither of the points is at a certain place where is the line where am I where is self where is everything where is nothing

you my
forgotten
self
you my
lost
meaning

is the blood
a better
companion
on passage
through
vessels
through
the heart

do you
hear
my
silence
do I
hear
your
voice

something
throbbing
coming
going

white
horse
black
horse
again
and again
new stones
pebbles
under
the wheels

new sparks
in the dark
between
two days
two white
pages

is it snow
that
covers
all the words written
on stones
in
books

birth
death
data

rest in peace
I am
the resurrection
and the life

in my Father's house
are many
mansions

rest in peace
personal
pro-
noun
on a
granite
plaque

why have I
carried you
with me
always
selfstone
stone
self

fingers
get tired
feet
stumble
on
hummocks
between
hummocks
in marshy
water
or on
those other
stones

mossy
round
stones
with
no
words
no
inscriptions
no
meaning
stones
amidst
foam
flow
flux
murmur
rising
from
your tired
legs
into ears
head

reminder
of rising
blood
pressure
of memory
memorial
stones
that
crushed
you fingers
that once
wanted
to become
young
and happy
become
five
ten
childish
fingers
in
running
water
and wind

memory
what do you
keep
in memory
from
your beginning
what was
before
what
will be
after
you

what remains
to me
only
the knowledge
that some
have to
carry
little Jesus
to the other
shore
some
death
some the
same memory
heavy
growing
stone
some
them-
selves

and there
is no
difference
between
this Jesus
this me
this death
and stone

in the
midst of this
life
only
one death
and whether
you are
you
or me
there
is always
something
bringing
every vision
back
into
the same
memory
and
pain

and whether you are you or me there is always something bringing every vision back into the same memory and pain

earth watches
in the same way
over
every
flying
stone and
bird

life-giver life-taker earth the anchor-stone the gravestone of us all big old lonely stone in the dark emptyness - who are you - I would like to ask something from you I don't know yet what it should be but soon it will be too late

something
glowing
red
in white
something

living
flame
heart
in us
in snow
everything
that
goes out
is extinguished
expires

cave
a grave candle
has melted
into
snow

the
world is
just ash
a resting
place
for dead
flames
a
glow
a dying
out
in the
middle
deep
below
everything
that
has
ever been
has been
fire
and
we
come
back
as
ash
as stones
as sparks
some
fall
back
meet
again
fall
apart

fall
into
memory
through
memory
where there
is no
difference
between
falling
particles
of dust
ash
or stars
through the
huge
empty
emptiness

a dying
man
in every
child
in every
dying
man
an
unborn
child

in every
thought
another
thought
other fingers
rummaging
through
someone's
fingerbones
a saw
sawing
itself
in half

mewling
of a
child
traces
of wind
on stone
poems
books
you can
call
your
own

do you
still
come
back
whatever
you have
or haven't
been

but
despite
you
without
you
me is
something
even worse

time

something
salty
coarse
anchor chain
sinking
through
you
never
reaching
the
ground
and poetry
fingerless
hand
rummaging
through
itself
through
white sea-
sand
songs and
destiny
without
finding
the sword
only
soldiers'
fingerbones
our fingerbones
strangers' ones
without
finding
the sword
only
sword wounds

new ones
old ones

but
still
there is
something
else
something
sharp
glittering
somewhere
on
a reef
through
sand and
water

far
far
from
everything
something
else

a single
piercing
pin
a
dot
without
an i

in this
merciless
confused
continuity

stone
beside
a stone
and
between
them
always
yet
another
stone

where
is there
a place
a slit
for a
knife
for
an
understanding

and
whence
all this
light

whence
language
words

a hole
in
a hole
a dot
without
an i

in the
going
away
into
the blue
far
away

far away
a sword
there
under
many
waters
under
many
seas

a skylark

beam
of light
tiny
shadow
like
a sword-
blow

through us
every
moment
what
it is
time
dripping
through
a desert
or sea-
sand
shadows
setting
into
the
ocean

where
are
you from

oblivion
where are
all these
borders
things
from

long bench
fire
breadknife

tick
tock

or
are you
the same
drop
of oblivion
grown
around
a speck
of stardust
a crystal
of
ice

becoming
a hieroglyph
a feather
in the
earth carpet
thaw water
down
downstream
past
everything
else

drop of
memory
clay
for
making
an
Omar Khayyam
a mug
a crocus

memory
oblivion
remembering
forgetting

black
white

raven
snow
owl

who are
nearly
the same
and
still
between
them
the whole
world

on
which side
of the wall
your
eyes
your mouth

that see
speak
eat
for you
writer

what
do you
pay
them all
these
feet
carrying
you
the stomach
digesting
your
food
for you

how
much
easier
have they
made
your life

how
do you
pay
them
your
self
who
exists
instead
of you
is your-
self
instead
of you

a net
holding
together
potatoes
hands
conscience
intestines
feet
or are you
something
even worse

a parasite
a tapeworm
a self
inside
your
self
inside
this
instant
this body
this
now

living
loathsome
wriggling
bundle of
shadows
that
doesn't
allow
the eyes
to see
mind
to
remind
itself
life
to live
eyes
fingers
understanding
reaching
deeper
inside
this
instant

tape-
worm
of memory
that
doesn't
allow you
to dissipate
to forget
to be

how is
it possible
to be
anything
but
free

as if
you
couldn't
exist
without
this
tapeworm
that wants
to get
its
share of
everything
to tie
together
all the
poems
moments
pain
with a  fine
red
ribbon
for you
who are
wrapped
into a
pretty
ornamented
sheet
of paper
a wet
mossy
stone
from
the stream
of memory
consciousness
grown
around
a random
particle
of
ancient
ash

maybe
carrying
traces
of lips
of poems
that
have been
have left
vanished
gone

traces
left
into sand-
stone
lime
-stone
petrified
sea-
bed
sea-
weed
forest
from their
waves
from their
flowing
stones
I have
just been
put
together
this flow
still
in my
blood
my ears

how easy it is to look for to find a metaphor or whatever it should be called and to let it live its own life in the hands of a poet everything then begins to move everything gets wings and becomes light on the other side under the earth the rivers flow from the sea back to the mountains and there in the mouth of an underworld river is a white rock that is as light as everything else and this stone takes flight and sings it sings for you all the songs you wanted to sing it rises the rock rises like a skylark and flies for you everywhere you wanted to fly where then of course to the southern seas no not to the palm trees and pretty girls further to the south where some islands are lost in the silence of the Pacific Falkland Macquarie Kerguelen Bouvet somewhere somewhere in the world there must be something that is unstained and new but all this is only poetry nobody believes it but why couldn't it be true from generation to generation from age to age everything has become heavier and heavier things people rocks notes and sounds only words have become weightless and I too cannot put them back bring them back to their meanings but still this weight is not in us is not in the things this is the weight of borders it is a weight that is between us that separates us from everything the weight of names of memory of continuity of regularity the weight of this everyday thing that has been called life the weight of dust from the streets that has been ground from everything from words rocks silence ourselves something that is like a grey flour but really isn't grey flour that maybe somewhere is called truth and reality but I cannot I cannot even for who knows when who knows when again

I fall
back
there
like
a tapeworm
a parasite
into
my own
intestines

and still
there
is nothing
inside
that has
not
been
outside

for an
instant
you
are there
built
of rays
and
echoes
of
the
universe

shadow
not person
mirror
not self

somebody's
glance
which has
looked
an instant
into
you

what islands
then
what
whales
what clouds
swimming
back
into you
what a
sea
Thalassa
Thalatta
at your
orchard
gate
what a sea
what a sea
what a sea

what
a
return
of
the soul
return
of all
killed
skylarks
bards
kings

their
return
home

to
Revala
Sakala

to the Antipodes

Falkland
Bouvet
Kerguelen

coming
back
turning
back
returning
this way
a way
away


new
flaming
as fire
coming
back
to the
beginning

beginning
anew
as fire
as flames

fiery to die in flames
fiery to be born in flames
flames my friends my own kin

returning
being
reborn
in flames
come
come
back
away
your
own
way

but
don't
forget
who
what
I
have been
here
for
ten
eleven
years
lying
on
my
face
on
the earth

where
my
chiefs
my
kings
have died
have been dead
seven
eight
thousand
years

is there
a
place
for any-
thing
between
us
between
me
and them
me
and their
coming
back

for any-
thing
but
fire
but
sleep
lying
on
my
face
in a
dry
river
bed

until
they
believe
pain is pain
sighs are sighs
tears are tears

until

the bed
boards
are
wholly
rotten

mugworts
rise
through
me
through
the bed
boards

until
they
believe
in the
death
sleep

I
am
sleeping

sith Osmi
who was sick
for
seven years
eight summers

together
with rocks
words
countries
with Lembity from leole rebel chief who had his head cut off sent to Rome with four kings electedby the Estonians and sent to negotiate with the Knights and put to death by them hewn into pieces

in Paide Pala Muhu Tartu Tallinn Estonia Livonia Alesia Wounded Knee

sleep
filling
fields
waste lands
wheels
and
chimneys
up
to the
brim

what then
remains
for
the awakening
what stays
awake
if even
sleep
is full
of the same
dust
and grinding
of
teeth

something
deeper
yet
behind
this sleep
this dream
this
waking

on the
other
side
in a
huge
huge
sea

islands

Kerguelen

an
other
dream
full ot
southbound
swans and
sails

your flight
your wings
wings
above
these
islands
seas

islands
islands
archipelagoes

full of
your
mute
feathers
flakes
of snow
covering
everything

snow
always
coming
back
ice
glaciers
coming
coming

do you
hear me
soul
my little
soul

do you hear

is
every
body
tired
asleep
is fire
still
awake

is fire
the
lost
soul
self
tired of
coming
back

ash of
burnt
feathers
burnt
songs
white
flakes
covering
everything
all
Ugandi
Uganda
Valgatabalve
Kalahari
Kerguelen

the king is dead
the kings are dead
the gods are dead
glaciers are coming

covering everything

we live in the ice age

still
my dream
a dream only
fire my own kin

who believes
a song
a sigh
who believes
tears
until
the bed
is rotten
the fire
is off

even
if you

do

not

come

I
still
refuse
to say
welcome
yes
hello
to
it
to
ice

if it
comes
it
comes
by
itself

un-
wanted
un-
greeted

ice
death
weariness

everything
except
the
lost
soul

o

knots
tighten

I
am
falling
back

but
where

no
direction
no
centre

only
your
pride
about
having
looked
into
the eyes
of
the glacier
having told it
something
to
its
face

ah
let
it all
be
let me
my-self
stay
with
its
pride
in the
white
glittering
ice
of death
sleep

there
is

is

only
this flame
fire
far
away
high
up
on
the
hill

grave candle
tallow lamp
from
the
Palaeolithic

fire
flame

at
least

for hte
sake of
this
splendid
dream
where I
could
stay
with your
non-existent
heather
forests

three kings
four kings
Melchior
Kaspar
BAlthasar
Lembitu of Leole

Crazy Horse
Dull Knife

37 degrees South
58 degrees North

Macquarie
Sakala
Muhu
Kerguelen

we live in the ice age
we live in the ice
we live
we

still
who you
were
when
you came
you
are
no
more

when you
go
away
come
back

one
single
spark
remained
of
all those
words

weariness
red
yellow
poppies
looking
down at
you
from
high up
come
nearer
come
to
mind

come
back
from
oblivion

some-
where
in some-
body
it
lives

somes
back
to
life
again

fire
flame

soul

and

LAULA LAULA PAPPI
SING SING PRIEST

MAGA MAGAMAS
SLEEP A SLEEP
SLEEP
ASLEEP
SLEEP

1973 - 1975

Translated by the author with Fiona Sampson










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Last modified: Wed Nov 21 10:11:21 EET 2001