Volume 47, No. 1 - Spring 2001
Editor of this issue: Violeta Kelertas
ISSN 0024-5089
Copyright © 2000 LITUANUS Foundation, Inc.


Translated by Anna Gàsienica-Byrcyn

I am of flowers
of bird's wing
the wind lives in me
when unfolded
I catch the wind
drops of green rain
awaken me with the spring
and I rub my eyes

of feathers and of flesh
of earth's thick fiber
I raise my head with my open eyes
I clench in my hand
a green shred of sky
I hold in my strong teeth
a small bough

I am of smiles—of pain
that carves a triangle
above my forehead
of light and of the moon
of love straight as a tree is straight
of gold earth that blooms golden in my hand

I tuned up my insides
they sing to me now
like a bird at dawn

my insides say
the most beautiful music is love
we learn to love

a bird says
the most beautiful time of day is dawn

at dawn the sun flies by 
and with its warm wing 
veils the earth

in your perfect fingers
I am only a shiver
a song of leaves
under the touch of your warm lips

your fragrance irritates—it says: you exist 
your fragrance irritates—it takes the night away 
in your perfect fingers 
I am the light

I shine with green moons 
above the dead darkened day 
suddenly you know that my lips are red

—with salty taste the blood flows up—

a bird of my heart lives 
under my left arm 
a bird of my heart throbs 
with its strangled wings 
in the warm nest

the torn out feathers 
live in the wind

the king likes to hide 
his head in the warm fragrant nest 
under my left arm 
as I know the king feared death

she stood outside 
gathering thorn feathers 
with her cold hand 
she lulled the wind to sleep

it's due to the flowers
I sent my lover to the South Pole
and when he left my lips turned to stone
I could no longer drink from that source
though I bowed my head very low
it's due to the flowers
that have not blossomed

it's due to the doves
whose wings became so dark from sudden knowledge
they lost their golden shine
they turned black
like a starless night
blind from birth
it's due to the doves
my lover lost his fingers then his arms

and he could no longer caress me

I wait in my home wrapped among the branches of trees
swaying in the wind—I wait
I look
as if he could still return from there
and bring in his absent hands
the sunny bloom of flowers and doves

I wait and watch


if you die
I will not wear a lilac dress
I will not buy colorful garlands
with ribbons filled with the whispering wind
nothing of that sort

the hearse will arrive—it will arrive 
the hearse will leave—it will leave 
I will stand by the window—I will look 
I will wave my hand 
I will wave my kerchief 
I will bid farewell 
by that window alone

and in summer
in furious May
I will lie down on the grass
and with my hand I will touch your hair
and with my lips I will touch the fur of the honeybee
the one biting as beautiful
as your smile
as the dusk
then it will be
maybe gold and merely red
for that dusk
that wind
that whispers stubbornly to the grass
will not allow me to rise
and go
simply so
to my accursed empty home
wet Ophelia

in redness
rising on her cheeks
she scattered herself like petals on water
she took the great moon into her sleeve
and then she put it suddenly on her head
and on her toes
on the tips of her hair
in this redness
once golden once sacred
she danced
as if possessed by the wind

why have I washed my breasts
combed every hair
so carefully in the narrow mirror
empty are my arms
and my bed

the thin penknife of night
cut my wedding ring
it hangs like a crescent now
under the heavy buds of the apple tree

I toss and turn
the wild wind swells
my starched shirt

my belly is a smooth pond 
my breasts foaming water 
caress them—caress—caress

day's light, drunk with weakness
will find my dried lips
and reluctantly and strangely
will kiss them with mist—and leave


Greetings to you my palms, my grasping fingers, and my finger smashed by the car door. My X-rayed palm looks like a sprained wing, like a tiny piece of bone drawn by its own contour. My left hand's ring finger once decorated by a band is widowed now, deprived of its adornment. The one who gave me the ring long since has no fingers. His arms are woven with the tree's roots into one.

My hands have so often touched the frozen palms of the dead, and the warm, strong palms of the living. They know how to caress unusually by touch losing the space that separates existence from existence, and heaven from earth. My hands knowing the pain of helplessness cling to each other like two frightened birds, homeless, blindly seeking everywhere the trace of your hands.

the body of my garden
woven from the living and painful branches
cries at night
recalling the down of birds' wings
the moon's face wet among the leaves
it peers into a nest full of absence
the green fingers quiver
clenched in the throat of the wind

the seeing fingers dance
on black and white keys
I greet them with my breath
with my hand I touch the lips
with my smile I bring to life
the colors and I use the most beautiful of them
to write in red blood: myself

in our eternal departures 
on outstretched wings 
we are ever closer 
to each other and earth

you are my hand
I am your hair
and that shadow behind us
is neither this nor that

the shadow—our united lips enclosing 
both love and death

I broke off the bough of love 
I buried it in the earth 
and look 
my garden has blossomed

one cannot kill love
if you bury it in the earth
it grows back
if you toss it into the air
it grows leaf-like wings
dropped into the water

it flashes with gills 
immersed in the night 
it shines

so I wanted to bury it in my heart
but my heart was home to my love
my heart opened its heart's door
and it rang out with song from wall to wall
my heart danced on my fingertips

so I buried my love in my head
and people asked
why my head has blossomed
why my eyes shine star-like
and why my lips are brighter than the dawn

I wanted to tear this love to pieces 
but it was supple it entangled my hands 
and my hands are bound with love 
people ask whose prisoner I am