Paul the Norwegian



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.

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