Elis

1.

The absolute stillness of this golden day.

Under ancient oak trees

you appear, Elis, a dormant seed with round eyes.

Their blueness reflects the slumber of lovers,

whose rosy sighs

die on your lips.

At evening the fishermen drew in their heavy nets.

A good shepherd

leads his herd to the edge of the woods.

O, Elis, how just are your days!

Wordlessly, by barren walls,

the blue secrecy of olive trees descends.

An old man’s dark song dies away.

One golden boat

rocks back and forth, Elis—your heart to the deserted sky.

2.

A sweet chiming ripples in Elis’s breast

at evening

when his head sinks into the black pillow.

The shadow of the hunted

bleeds in peace in the barbed thicket.

A brown tree stands cloistered there,

its blue fruit falling away.

Signs and stars

go under, breathless, in the night-pond.

Behind the hill winter has come.

By night

blue doves drink the glacial sweat

from Elis’s crystal brow.

Forever whines by the blackened walls

God’s forsaken wind.