The gloom grey angels* grappled to the zenith of a Jesuit town
belltower survey a wilderness of plaster and native
pine boards: new Vilnius is under reconstruction. Over long
white hours the rezoned city walls, the whispering drafty
ghetto glow late renaissance shades of first red earth or
amber for their plucked open eyes, the old cosmos catches
light like black
ceramic sainted by dusk.
Everywhere, meanwhile, this mortal
twentieth-century uncoils before a history's barred
gates of horn: the river Neris snakes muscular
north into forgetfulness, ghosts to gusty gloam, and still
another fugitive sword returns to zero in a foreign
quarter and his own dust. In this capital, millennia yawn.
*said, in legend, to divide the labour of watching over the happy and the sad of Vilnius
Darius Victor Sniečkus
Subscrever:
Enviar feedback (Atom)
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário