The Poet’s Sonnet

there’s still summer lavishing in my parched soul

the yearning for beauty still scratches my wing :

vultures haven’t pronounced me less than a spit’s roll

while lenient flowers still suffer my ebbing…


yet how long will this beam profligacy last

how will I pay the rent in this adjourning world ?

Christ murmurs − no haughty ukase would He cast :

you’ll reveal the Poetry of Light when purled !


a bohemian cricket − I’ve chirped at the moon

a poor burdock burr − stuck to the garment span

a nobody and a nought” − some would harpoon


but quiet as a mouse − nose to the frying pan…

…the more furibund blaspheme might be spooned

the sooner Christ will descend and heal my wound !


The Ploughman of the Bookfields

should it rain on in antiquarian bookshops

we’d once again disregard the Turquoise Ice Floe :

all books confirm reckless urticaria crops

letters swear grossly like a sailor to a foe !


the Antiquarian God − hunchbacked − gently stoops

to readjust the frail stars in their righteous skies :

swarms have shed their silver glow − still slough limestone loops

instead of dreams − their deeds get mouldy as disguise…


poor gigantic Lord God abiding within signs

there’s no human helping hand around at sunset :

no field paths or rich harvests to spur the headlines


nor do You have true praisers − for your toil’s asset…

…Your body’s crucified upon the Holy Book

You’ll always whisper: „ploughmen are an endless brook…


English version by Gabriela PACHIA