I
That shift of light and shadow
in the forest of conifers across the river;
and then the shadow of my face,
gradually defined, brought into focus
against the open book –
Now to know it, fleetingly,
and beyond any thought of it,
that I am breathing, that I am here,
in this place of mountains, valleys and rivers –
I, who knowing nothing, today know this.
II
Now, late afternoon, I watch
a light returning to these mountains,
their knuckles raw against the sky.
I watch, till evening comes, how walls of stone
take in, absorb this light, until
they’re saturated, their ochre molten, bleeding.
Here, in the valley, in this ancient theatre
of light now draining to dark, there is
only that continuous sound
rising, falling, through the trees,
that composes the silence.
The selves I’ve been lie shed
like rinds of fallen bark,
the sun-dried leaves on grass.
And, like the bee-eaters now
that flashing dive, catch insects
for their evening meal, I feast on light,
the slow clear honey of it,
And this other honeycomb
that I’ve never tasted quite like this:
the serenity of this emptiness, my nothingness.
- Eduard Burle
