to its birds that have
learned their unfolding of wings
from a subtle
lift of a surprised eyebrow,
or perhaps from a razor blade
- wings, now the shade of
early twilight, now of state
bad blood.
Now the place is abuzz with
trading
in your ankles's remnants,
bronzes
of sunburnt breastplates,
dying laughter, bruises,
rumors of fresh reserves,
memories of high treason,
laundered banners with
imprints of the many
who since have risen.
All's overgrown with people.
A ruin's a rather stubborn
architectural style. And the
hearts's distinction
from a pitch-black cavern
isn't that great; not great
enough to fear
that we may collide again
like blind eggs somewhere.
At sunrise, when nobody
stares at one's face, I often,
set out on foot to a
monument cast in molten
lengthy bad dreams. And it
says on the plinth "commander
in chief." But it reads
"in grief," or "in brief,"
or "in going
under."
~ ~ Joseph Brodsky
(1985; translated from the Russian by the poet)
