Traveler of This World

For Tomas Venclova

Setting out from Vilnius, beginning in Lithuania,your homeland, crying in the wall shadows, withoutluggage. The pine-needled sky makes feartake refuge in the retinas. When nothingness

dimly lights the road of exile, only gloomy wordsbegin to awaken. That’s the true country. Death’sdistance has been ground and shattered. Conquered, threatened,  and hungry,the already weak and confused skull mutters

like the black sky. Beech trees, chestnut trees, and rushesaren’t far from the abyss. Only pain and mutenesscan cross death’s borders. You reach out your hand and opencountless station doors. Gazing at unfamiliar city squares, a

traveler. It’s better to forget the hissing flamesin the fireplace, the warm lanterns in the room, the tasteof hot tea on your desk. Because there’s no way to know if yourheartbeat belongs to tomorrow’s dawn. Behind the mirror

perhaps there’s a last poem already written by fatein your mother tongue long ago. Like in childhood, at the doorway  of the house.A key. A postcard. No matter how far you were banishedyour eyes still shine with a child’s innocence.