by Pavel Chichikov
Paul the Norwegian
Was mourning for his wife:
My Libby, my poor Libby
Was all he could say
She was young and he was young
Sixty years ago almost
Now, who can tell
Who remembers but me?
We are so fresh
Like spring narcissus
Petals, unwound leaves
The metaphor is old
Listen, I know not why
We come to life
Or why we die
What is the reason?
To mourn? To forget?
For someone to admire?
Who mourns a flower?
Many more come after
If I come before the Lord
I will ask –
He says:
You will know without asking
You will see Me
That I will never die
And that will be enough
For an answer
Yet were you born, my Lord
But were you young, ever?
That is the hard question, my old thing,
And not for the clever
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
Note: Pavel will read selections of his poetry at Franciscan University (Steubenville, OH) on January 25, 2002.