Prometheus, pour the wine to the earth
My best days are gone,
the beards of the trees are verging on the wind.
Prometheus, pour the wine to the earth,
irrigate from it the mountainside,
make the language of the flowers empty.
If I would understand what the rivers are talking,
I would write the heavens crack,
I would remember what it seems to the mind of an awakened pigeon
when its beak splits the egg-shell space
for a first time.
Have a mercy on me!
I don’t want my hands to beat the memory of the life,
my foot to forget how to run,
and so, therefore!
Take a piece of the white bread, erase the letters,
then bow and say three times three,
the oath of thirteen,
open the lantern of our pilgrimage,
but don’t blow before the horse
runs through the field and sings a song
for the fox.