Volume 26, No. 3 - Fall 1980
Editor of this issue: Birutë Cipliauskaitë
ISSN 0024-5089
Copyright © 1980 LITUANUS Foundation, Inc.




With words that sway in the wind —
like a tree rocking the night in its branches —
life, I would hold you in my arms,
asking — who are you?

With words that call, call in vain,
with those that caress, those that question,
and above all those that ask:
— What's the sense?

The night mocks me with the chirping of crickets,
touches my eyes with cool fingers of stars,
overpowers me and my outcry.
And the sense? You utter the word,
and it shuts itself up like a clam.

Sinking into the silence,
I repeat to myself:
— It's better not to ask.
Remeber Eve? The apple, the serpent?
Eve didn't ask. She never asks —
nor does she ever listen.


When you died,
for several days the very depth of my eyes
was haunted by a dove,
white, restless, easily frightened.
No sooner did I catch a glimpse of it,
than it took wing, fluttered away,
and disappeared into the grayish twilight.
But my heart knew: It's you. Your soul.

And it was good — that sad yet radiant knowledge.
Autumn can be at times like that:
the quiet light, transformed to wisdom,
holds up to earth a sky wide open,
just like a mirror. And you can see the most minute
bud of emotion, quivering in your soul.
All is so clear it hurts:
the sky, the earth
and you yourself, lost in between,
yes, even death.

What you were I know and never shall forget:
A dove. White, easily frightened.