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