The sugar dissolved in the coffee
and spring began,
scented and sweet.

Your hands danced upon the table
The long forgotten steps of melting snows.

-You have salty eyes, – I said.
I once lived by the sea, –
you seemingly answered

Of course, I could be mistaken.
Words are not meant for memories.

A dream has no sense of time, a dream is out of time.
Meaning, that asleep I can only meet you by accident.
But of course, if we want, we can fix a time and place:
Over there, on the bridge of the moon, by the edge of the world, at spring o clock.

We are heaps of oblivion,
scorched layers of litter, ashes.
It’s possible we’ll find a trace
of life there:
      the leg of a doll,
a snake’s molted skin,
     the egg of a bird,
from which the world could have emerged.

The faithful will linger to wait,
the faithless will venture on,
until darkness will wipe all away,
and build a black and sleepy
wall before night.
And the supplicants will tire
of praying,
because their hands are not candles –
they don’t burn without pain,
because lips are not winds –
they don’t smack without words.
Only a road winds, only a winding road.
We – a dust cloud.
Want to go to heaven.

As always
morning draws our faces
and leaves.

Translated by Laima-Rita Krieviņa and Māra Rozīte

© ELM no 9, autumn 1999