Autumn Eyes

By Hilde Domin

Press yourself close
to the ground.

The earth
still smells of summer
and your body
still smells of love.

But the grass
is already yellowed above you.
The wind is cold
and full of thistledown.

And the dream which waylays you
shadow-footed
your dream
has autumn eyes.

Return

My feet were wondering
that next to them feet walked
which didn’t wonder.

I who walk barefoot
and leave no track
I always look at people’s shoes.

But the paths celebrated
meeting again
with my shy feet.

In February
by my childhood home there bloomed
an almond tree.

I had dreamt
it would bloom.

Travelling Light

Don’t get used to it.
You mustn’t get used to it.
A rose is a rose.
But a home
is not a home.

Say no to the lapdog objects
which wag their tails at you
from shop windows.
They’re wrong. You
don’t smell of permanence.

One spoon is better than two.
Hang it round your neck
you may have one
because it’s too difficult to scoop up
hot things with your hand.

Sugar would run through your fingers
like solace
like a wish
on the day
it comes true.

You may have one spoon
one rose
perhaps one heart
and, perhaps,
one grave.

The Golden Rope

Nothing is as fleeting
as an encounter.

We play like children
we invite and reject
as if we had forever.
We joke with farewells
we collect tears like marbles
and check whether knives cut.
Too soon your name
is called.
Too soon playtime
is over.

Scared
we hold on tightly
to the golden rope 
and resist the departure.
But it breaks.
We drift outwards:
away from the same town
away from the same world
under the same
all intermingling
earth.

Translated into English by Elke Heckel and Meg Taylor