YOUR WASTED HEAT
(Graveyard Blossoms)
II
It seems that Spring will not arrive this year.
Though it is April, we still welcome the hearth’s heat.
While outdoors icy winds blow far and near,
And a drizzling rain spreads o’er the slippery street.
I am seated near a breath-fogged window pane
And gaze into the ever changing fire,
Into its flaming orange-tinted chain.
Within the stove, sparks fly up to the hood;
Perhaps they are the dreams and the desire
Of by-gone springs that slumbered in the wood.
Their light paints roses on the window haze
And conjures May and Youth within the blaze.
Old weathered man, why stand you in the sleet?
The biting frost blows through your aged bones
And in your beard, the rain drops pearly stones.
Are you afraid to ask for a night’s retreat?
Surely there are good people on this earth
To whom true kindness is an inborn trait;
Who curse the world for its poverty and dearth
And the thankless poor, who rebel at their fate.
Yes, you do well that you ask not for love
And firmly bear the lot willed from above.
Why should you bow your head of silver hair;
Oh yes … your hair … it does appear in truth,
Like a sudden illness that strikes one in his youth.
Perhaps you have not lived your youth’s full share,
And some great worry, rather than old age
Deepened the furrow on your cheeks, old sage?
Your eyes gazed at me and I shook in fright,
As if but recently they had lost their sight,
As if to pierce the darkness it had tried;
Glittered once more and then forever died.
Your lip as pale as a violet’s faded bloom,
Perhaps had just been blushing like a rose
And lately gave its burning kiss to whom?
A kiss as warm as only young love knows.
And now, a tooth cuts in your lip with pain,
Go aged man and do not sadden me,
My tender heart is tempting me to be
Like kind St. Martin and to play his role again.
48
