by Pavel Chichikov
Whatever will be left of me?
What relic of my memory?
I could build a house of wood
Nail and staple, peg and board
Ride a horse of sixteen hands
Shore to shore, from land to land
Whatever will be left of me
What relic of my memory?
I could snatch away the honey
Leave the hive suspended high
Go a swarm of wasps among
Unguardedly and not be stung
Whatever will be left of me?
What relic of my memory?
All that I have known and said
Will be forgotten when I'm dead
I myself will soon forget
A little while before my death
A little while if not at once
Sigh my sigh, breath my last
Dwindle down to senile flame
Then the dark that has no name
Except four syllables in one
Uncanny word: oblivion
As if an island in a spate
Submerged by every love and hate
Whatever will be left of me?
Not even pride and vanity
Nothing left where I have trod
Disbelief, belief in God
Eternity an empty room
Where no one lives and no one comes
What is the answer Son of Man?
With infancy your soul began
I will gather what is sown
Only life itself your own
Only life on which I build
The resurrection of the world
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
