HOMECOMING OF LOVE ON THE SUMMITS OF THE WIND
Here you are, my love, preceded by the wind
Which gushes over the blonde plains where bread suddenly
Blossomed in the warm hours
Of our first summer,
Climbing high into the light amongst the stones.
You rock in the narrow cradle of the ruins
Of parallel arches which Roman hands
Stretched around these temples and towers
Of their town, hoping someday maybe
You would crown them with your delicate steps
Of burning whiteness.
You take to yourself, in the midst of the murmuring stones,?
And the sonorous bones locked away in their hollows,
The face of light rising up over the bald mountains,
The villages of faded bricks.
The burning paths, the vast drowsiness
Of a landscape astonished at the sight of you --
Rising like an apparition on the summit of the wind.
O my love, if I could only see you once more
Unawares, as in the old days,
Under that high sun which gave the hours
Of our first summer their harmony.
All that bright, luminous music which you were,
Rocking there in the cradle of ancient stones.
~ for Little Crow, from GNS Hunter
[TRANS. by Kenneth Rexroth]