Greenery

Ears of wheat rise up and again fall to the earth once more they grow. Here love has been repeated. Night has been repeated with the winking of great, faraway galaxies. Sleep has been repeated: the sleep of the first sowers woman in the arms of man. And at nightfall the dream has been repeated: — flocks in the pasture of light and dew. Morning: the one morning the one sun the spreading of the one light over the one earth love in the arms of love — here footsteps the footprints of the first springs — above the drought — have been repeated. Here every day life has been added to the life before. Here every day jasmines wounded by the spearpoint and the barbed wire, have stood up tall — however slight — above yesterday. And the trembling breeze has crawled on its belly — through hidden and bloody borders — to the garden of orange blossoms; every day every Nowruz a little closer love to love. — however slight — the legacy of fertile pollen scattered over the city. Fertile pollen in the one morning in the one melody with the clamor of hundreds of birds low and high short and long many-colored greeting the presence of the sun a gift of time: manifold and one: Nowruz! Here it has been repeated the longing for a new day without hiding behind the curtain of sleep they have been repeated: the first springs the first stones; stones polished by the kiss of the wave — love in the arms of love — eternal mirrors facing each day the seat of the sun’s loud laughter golden laughter. Rolling stones and naked; stone by stone house by house they have been repeated the “forbidden” feasts they have been repeated the “forbidden” laughter laughter that destroyed the spears of death and death itself. Fresh green shoots have sprung up through the cracks of the tiles. Here Nowruz moment by moment self-sown from every crevice has turned green with the legacy of all growing. And it has turned green the all-embracing dream: the all-embracing morning the all-embracing feast house to house. — the feast of a lit candle from one window into the other windows — the dance of a feast without spears and without death that rises from the depths of the earth with the scent of orange blossoms and passes through the barbed wire; stone by stone hand to hand house to house it goes round it grows again — a new day with a new longing — from the heart of dew and light heads in each other’s arms manifold and one upon the eternal mirrors...