The Park (1999)

 
VI.

Between the rows of trees so long ago
I used to see myself.
I wasn’t open then,
I simply was a lack of walls
so that the looks of people penetrated me
to touch the ancient ground. The inner part of me
was a bow-string which
caught the things and all the moments filtering within
and hurled them back outside
through the space-time, clenched in fist,
to the sparkling ocean of the first-born impulses.
Composed and tempered by the inner states which
were born and cultivated in the gardens of the Self,
being a mosaic of interminably rearranging many-coloured
pebbles – gestures, thoughts and words
of the distant dead –
composed of now and ever,
I was imperturbably complete.
So discordant
by their form and time,
close to their basis these
purely human stays converged,
diverging then again below my surface
like seaweeds.

But who can see the looks of a face
behind a closed door?

tr. by Peyo Karpuzov