As promised and without deception,
The sun passed through in early morning
In a slanting saffron stripe
From the curtain to the sofa.
It covered with burning ochre
The neighboring woods, village houses,
My bed, the wet pillow
And the strip of wall behind the bookshelf.
I remembered for what reason
The pillow was slightly damp.
I dreamed that you were coming to my wake,
One after another through the woods.
You were coming in a crowd, in ones and twos,
Suddenly, someone remembered that it was
August sixth by the old calendar,
The Transfiguration of Christ.
Usually, a light without fire
Pours this day from Mt. Tabor
And autumn, clear as an omen,
Compels the gaze of all.
And you walked through the scant, beggarly
Naked trembling alder grove
Into the ginger-red cemetery woods,
Burning like glazed ginger bread.
A solemn sky verged
Upon its silent heights,
And distance called out
In drawling rooster voices.
In the woods, among the gravestones
Death stood like a government surveyor,
Looking at my dead face
To dig my grave to measure.
All sensed the presence
Of someone’s calm voice nearby.
It was my old prophetic voice
That rang, untouched by decay:
“Farewell to the azure of Transfiguration
And the gold of the Second coming.
Soothe the woe of my fatal hour
With a woman’s parting caress.
Farewell to the trackless years!
Let’s say goodbye, o, woman who hurls
A challenge to the abyss of humiliation.
I am your battlefield.
Farewell to you unfurled wing-span,
Free, persistent flight,
The world’s image, captured in a word,
Creative work, and miracle-working.”