27th April: the Bollin valley, Cheshire
An old man sees a young woman
Who is careless of her beauty and he feels
A sort of envy but kinder, It is not mourning
But a sad-happiness that spreads within me,
Feeling happy that the blind do not confront the dark
And that the wind that tosses her blonde hair,
As she talks animatedly with her girlfriend,
Is the same wind upon which I catch her perfume.
I am so glad she can't imagine the emptiness
I feel as I pass her by, on this wonderful spring
Day in England. Once upon a time the universe
Was thought to revolve around the kind old sun.
The easier atoms carried by the solar winds away,
Others stayed, close, sticky like coagulating blood,
Maybe I will meet her in my dream or in the hustle
And bustle of the street: as if I were searching
For traces of an alien life in this meagre universe.
Where the star of David, the one the wise men followed,
Is the supernova that wiped out the highest form of gentility
Unknown to man. Civilization is so fragile it destroys itsellf.
On a whim. If we were to meet, I would say that shadows cast in memory
Are as nothing compared to the passing beauties of this single April day.