Sometimes you tear open poppy buds and look
how blossoms form. After that, the poppies
will never bloom again.
Mornings you braid in silk ribbons and feed
pale-blue doves. Later you leaf through thick red
books of fairy tales. And sway on swings. And roll
reed hoops — — —

And more — you sing.
But why do you sing? Evenings are full of hymns.
Look how furious fiery stars spin and earth flies
headlong!
How I, obedient animal, honor bright Astarte and
close whispering curtains.
And then walk on a warm carpet. Barefoot.

This evening two grinning lanterns will scream
by the gates. Carriages will roll without a sound,
brushing damp lilacs.
Girls, girls — shut the fairytale books and blow out
youthful candles! Choose earrings quickly. They will
tinkle like bells. Choose gloves reaching the elbows.
This evening all your fathers’ and mothers’ sins
gather and ignite in your slanting eyes.
                         _________
Raining more and more.
Empty children’s swings crying.