Two Poems

Revenge

At times?…?I wishI could meet in a duelthe man who killed my fatherand razed our home,expelling meintoa narrow country.And if he killed me,I'd rest at last,and if I were ready—I would take my revenge!

But if it came to light,when my rival appeared,that he had a motherwaiting for him,or a father who'd puthis right hand overthe heart's place in his chestwhenever his son was lateeven by just a quarter-hourfor a meeting they'd set—then I would not kill him,even if I could.

Likewise?…?Iwould not murder himif it were soon made clear that he had a brother or sisterswho loved him and constantly longed to see him.Or if he had a wife to greet himand children whocouldn't bear his absenceand whom his gifts would thrill.Or if he hadfriends or companions,neighbors he knewor allies from prisonor a hospital room,or classmates from his school?…asking about himand sending their regards.

But if he turnedout to be on his own—cut off like a branch from a tree—without a mother or father,with neither a brother nor sister,wifeless, without a child,and without kin or neighbors or friends,colleagues or companions,then I'd add not a thing to his painwithin that aloneness—not the torment of death,and not the sorrow of passing away.Instead I'd be contentto ignore him when I passed him byon the street—as Iconvinced myselfthat paying him no attentionin itself was a kind of revenge.

Nazareth April 15, 2006

The Falcon
1

If ever,sadness, it mightbe in my powerto free myselffrom you one day,then I would feel,decidedly,the suicide's delight as he's freedfrom all responsibility!And imagine that Iwere suddenlyreleased from you,like flocks of the Sada'—the death-owl—being releasedfrom our fields and skulls?…What would happen then?What would happenwere I to abandon you now?Suppose I were, at this very moment,to leave you behind,as the drunkard leaves the tavern—what would I lose?For me it's sufficient to simplynot know sadness any longer—not know it as winter approachesand not when it departs,not when summer arrives,and not when the season moves on.The rivers' vagrancy wouldn't sadden me,nor would the birds' being sent away.Not even the flowersthemselveswould stirthe obscure shades of sorrow in me,or the various sorts of melancholythat always remain a mystery.

2

Birds,flowers,and you, O river—after my sadness is freed from you,rivers will no longer be rivers,nor birds birds,and even the flowers themselveswill cease being flowers!For without my sorrow,at the end of the day,rivers will only be water,and the flowermerely a plant—without my grief.Without methe bird will be seizedby night and perish.And those that remainafter my longingand apart from my solitude—a crow here,a screech owl there—won't be birds,and not songbirds.For?…?what is the birdwithout my memories?What is the songbirdwithout my longing,and what is song?What is the bird beyond my burning?Without my sadnessthe songbirds are onlya forest of beaks,a thicket of claws!The songbird without my sadnessis merely a mass of flesh;it wouldn't be coveredby a single feather,except?…for the adder's pursuit;and no fine down would clothe it—the sand's gown across the dune—apart from the kestrel's enticementand the hunters' lure!

3

And still,it seemsI really willbe freed of you—that I'll leave youand find rest at last!For the very first time,I'll...