The Looking Glass in the Deep

Whenever I catch sight of my brow into a well
I can see myself just as the sun sheds its light upon my countenance
just as I am, just as I was, just as I shall be.
Whenever I catch sight of my brow into a well
I dimly see how my wrinkled cheek
embraces both Heaven and Earth.
Whenever I catch sight of my brow into a well
I am aware that ancient mothers in the deep
present me with my soul – a looking glass.
Whenever I catch sight of my brow into a well
I face my fate, forgeting word and name.

Poppies

I whistle my joy
through a bitter leaf of hemlock – and an unfathomable fear
of death pervades me,
as I watch you – poppies –
by the shore of the rye sea.

I wish I would embrace you,
for, somehow, the petals which you wear
seem to be woven
from the red foam
of a hot and hectic summer twilight.

I wish I would grasp in my arms
your virgin fervour,
your garment is so tender though
that I dare
not hold you, be it solely in the arms of my thoughts.

And I wish I would crush you
as you are red, as red
as no sublumary thing could ever have been
but the huge, ardent drops of blood which fell
on rocks
and on sand in Gethsemane off the forehead of Jesus,
when death overcame Him.