but you are a tree
Ah, twigs burn in fireplaces and sleds slide through fluff
stretching herself a cat purrs, swells into a pliable bow.
You are in the river and in each movement your smile is cast.
Awake with snow, with meadow, change into the antlers of deer,
Toward evening you'll become flesh and in my body fall to sleep.
And I'll wake again in the morning, the tired folk will pass,
will find on my breast a white hawthorn asleep.
11 February 1942
It's you who roared with lightning blows
on anvils of rigid pupils,
so skulls were too small for terror,
and hearts too big for earth.
It's your palm that hurricane-like hurled
fiery bullets at the spherical vault,
and upon men's paths dreams and ruins
smoking like your fresh track.
And you congealed in slaughters' roar
amid the wanderings of deafened generations,
till besieged by the barrels of goblets
you stood waterdrop on a table.
What are you, when the fire of zodiacs
poured from above has dimmed in the light,
and attacking you continually fill
glasses -- beating with their cells' nucleus?