Last Poems 13
Rabindranath Tagore
The Saying
The first day's sun
questioned
the new appearance of being—
Who are you?
There was no answer.
Years went by.
Day's last sun
asked the last question from
the shores of the west
in the soundless evening—
Who are you?
There was no answer.
In an old book
I stumbled across a saying.
It was like a stranger
punching me in the face,
it won't stop
gnawing at me.
When I walk around at night,
looking for a beautiful girl,
when a lie or a description
of life or somebody's fake
way of being with people
occurs instead of reality,
when I betray myself with
an easy explanation
as if what's dark is clear,
as if life doesn't have thousands
of locked, burning gates,
when I use words without really
having known their strict openness
and put my hands around things
that don't excite me,
when a dream hides my face with soft hands
and the day avoids me,
cut off from the world,
cut off from who I am deeply,
I freeze where I am
and see hanging in the air in front of me
STOP BEING A GHOST!
Ernst Stadler
Untitled
Radmilla Lazić
It's too late to teach my heart anything.
The alphabet of suffering
I already know it by heart. I test it live.
Life knows more than the Sibyl.
Time has stopped. What bliss is there in flowing?
Reality resembles a moth-eaten sweater—
This is what poetry is like.