1.
Spring is born anew
without memory of past lives
and the experience of leaves and flowers.
A drop of blood spilled
on a white carnation petal
may appear to signal a trace of Ariel’s
random crime, but there are no
other clues and no secret police
in the flowers.
Roots that dig deep
into the earth
do not know anything about their predecessors.
Insects swarm—transparent—as air.
One thousand murderers meet
in the awakening and in dreams
of countries that wave invisible scepters
on the human anthill.
Empires live and die—
without memory.
2.
Scarlet tulips bloom
as if awakening from a dream,
dahlias, peonies, chrysanthemums,
flowers of different seasons,
blossom at once.
The Gardener pities
the misfortunes of his flowers,
leans down with his water can,
droplets clinging petals
in silence.
Later in spring,
hundreds of gladiolus draw out
flames from scabbards.
And flowers have been ripped
apart in their beds
And the hyacinths plunge forward
like a herd of wild horses stampeding
across the fields
trampling the ruins of
an ancient city. Leaves, petals
twist in a vortex of blind water,
tomorrow’s deluge.
Translated by Dzvinia Orlowsky and Jeff Friedman
