Ivan Jelinek
And yet
The laurel wreath of beasts,
although the she-wolf howled,
he wove – and the voice of light
was still half-unfulfilled.He balanced blood on the blade
edge – not a single spilled
droplet
No ripple
– stealth into storm – welled
from the high or the low blueAnd yet –
And yet . . . only wait,
wait tell the Lord ceases
his thrumming and his phrase,
stopped by love’s lacking words
within his singing:
the thunder-dream that leads
out of sight is still ringing –
look, he is torn in pieces.
All masks from his face
ripped by hell, by hate.And yet –
He moans the word-drops, one
by one, in her soothed lap
– the beat, down, up:
strums by the gate: goes in
her husband. Departs her son.[JG]
Translated by Jonathan Griffin
Page(s) 168-169
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