THE SALT COLUMNS

Where are you, who joined hands and went away
Along the seaside?  The earth spread a couch
And waited for you;  the trees stopped breathing and leant 
Over you, and the birds on their branches
Ceased singing.  Oh lovers!  Tears
Rushed from your eyes when your frightened
Beautifully carved bodies, covered with flames,
Felt dizzy and thrilled with joy
Since they found one another.  You did not see
How the God of Love came silently
Over the bending grass and opened the door
Calling, inviting and urging to go.
"We are here!" answered the bodies, "We shall never
Move from here, no matter what happens..."
Oh damnation!  The flame is dying out already.
But you have not seen anything, you are only sinking
Deeper and deeper into the earth.  You should walk on –
Those who lingered, got stiff and became the salt
Columns:  there they are, showing white in the mist
Of the sea coast.  Hurry, oh hurry!  Since the seaside
Road and the waves, and the stars
Whirling in the wind
Are getting restless and turning away from you.

Translated by Antanas Danielius


* * *

You are not a conch cast ashore, that implores
The tide to bring it back to the deep.
It is barren – only sand buzzes inside it.
Reminiscences lead it only back and back.
You are a seed!  An arrow!
Short from a drawn bow, free
From lingering and mourning, you are flying to the aim
Without farewells.  From the abyss of darkness
You are driving the trunk of flames
Like a wedge into space.  And the space yields to you.
Oh this infinitely dear and everlasting burning!
Its perpetual change keeps the stem stable
And because of that branches are spreading.
Oh obey, oh obey!  Waves of chaos
Are attacking you, but hidden in the root
You accumulate power and then more along
The arteries of the trunk to become
A passionate bud.  I live in you.
I nourish and protect you and send you
Farther to see you open in blossom
Of your nirvana and then hide again
In the sweet roundness of fruit.
You are my father, my son, the most reliable
Messenger.  Worlds incline toward us.
Ah, they must know where the petals
Of your flower fall.  Oh you, favorite of the winds,
Captain of an austere moment, do not lower
Your eyes when figures from unknown and distant shores
Swim toward us and press themselves to us.
Look, how your fiery seeds
Fly into their half-open mouths.

Translated by Antanas Danielius


DEAR BROTHER

Dear brother, in my bosom I carry 
Father's and mother's graves, 
And a third small grave, yours. 

On the town's crooked sidewalks 
Stars blossomed like yellow dandelions, 
And your kite lifted 
Along with the doves. 

You were going on six, 
I was in my third month... 
I've outgrown you long since, 
Destined to comprehend 
What you'll never grasp. 

Yellow dandelions are blooming
And like father once, holding your small hand,
I take you,
Whom I never got to know,
Everywhere. 

Translated by Algirdas and Joan Landsbergis


BALLAD IN FOG

I woke up – unaware how long I slept
I woke up. The house was empty.
My mother was out. My father was out.
The door was left open.
Fog in the window,
Fog in the room,
Fog on my table. 

I went out to the garden,
Opened the gate.
And the moment I opened the gate,
The house disappeared, as if sunk into the ground.
Fog all around. I am in an island.
Fog is drifting with me like sails.
The island under my feet is flying. I cannot run away.
I found a tree – it was lonely.
A wet bird was sleeping in a wet nest
It was lonely.
I found a house
It was lonely.
A man was sleeping with his woman –
They were lonely. 

I came back. My home was not my home anymore.
I woke up. There was somebody inside.
Father, but not mine. Mother – not mine, either.
The door was open.
Fog in the window,
Fog in the room,
Fog on my table
Fog, white like the smoke of explosions.
And wet like pain and salty like a wound.
I saw a picture of sunrise in the fog – 
Through a forest of dead hands, 
Red sea was rising form the red sea. 
I closed the door. The clock stopped. 
Sleep is sweetest during the very sunrise. 

I woke up – unaware, how long I slept
Somebody's steps behind the wall, fire roaring in the stove
The clock, striking behind the wall.
I woke up. I opened the door and saw my face –
Distant and unfamiliar –
In the morning mirror.
After long and deep sleep.
Roofs are warm, a train approaches.
A train approaches through the white fog
And cuts the landscape in two.
The room in two,
My table in two. 

Translated by Antanas Danielius

Born in the lowland region of Lithuania in Mažeikiai, Alfonsas Bukontas has published four collections of poetry. He has worked as an editor for various Lithuanian literary magazines.