Sweet Colonnade

Oh, my sweet, sweet colonnade,
do you still sharpen your pillars
against the cinnamon dusk of the place
so distant,
so insanely revered,
so bitterly rejected
the place called . . .
How did we call this place, Madam?
Patria, madam?
Or something like that?
I did forget. . .
Do I regret. . .

But I remember.
The cinnamon dust,
the smell of wet moss,
remnants in the distance, roses in the distance,
graveyards, leaned on the horizon,
crosses, piercing the skies. . .
Murky-ness of nothing-ness
and leaves of grass
( defined by Whitman )
under the Whitmanly White un-a-Ware-ness
of coming spring.

Oh, my sweet, concrete colonnade,
I hope you’ll open your primroses
as those old hearts of ours
fluttering,
half ajar
Far. . .so far
I hope
you’ll relinquish your promises, sweet colonnade,
and give me your wind,
sprung from portals of death.

“In the corner of some foreign field
I had a dream. . .”

I remember that Sofia tune. . .

We do not have dreams
anymore - furthermore
. . . the doom is fallinnnn’ -
the dice is rollinnnn’ . . .
I do not dream – I see
them
Bulgarian brethren
facing Bulgarian brethren
in front of you, my sweet
colonnade
and the colonel
coldly
commanding:
“ Aim! “

“ Where are you from?
Ohio, sir.
Do you remember the river?
Ohio river, sir? “

Where are you from?
Sofia, sir.
Do you remember the river?
Perlovskata, sir?

Springggg
I’ll read again
profusely and in vain -
E.E.
Cummings
( for example )
I’ll read semi–spontaneously,
sweet colonnade,
about the sweet spontaneous,
of these rusty fingers of the past
poking
prodding
squeezing
buffeting. . .
And I’ll be genuinely surprised
that
“Thou aswerest
Them only with
Spring”

I do not know my, crumbling colonnade,
if, when, and how
the Spring will answer -

but answer shall I wait for !

________________________________________________________
Sofia is the capital of Bulgaria

Perlovska river – river in Sofia