Irving Layton
Old Dubrovnik
(For Pero Santic)
Perfectly intact, fragile
This painted eggshell
Grows each day more lovely under the sun
While History, a weasel,
Sucks out the life-giving albumen.
Here, stricken,
Time lies entombed in quiet ceremony:
If from his mausoleum he still speaks,
He speaks only to the faint stars overhead.
Odd, but in this tomb
Are displays of neckwear and jewellery,
And in its maze of forgotten streets
People have colds, make love, boil tea.
Surely a bewitched prince
Is dreaming this fabled place:
When he awakes and rubs his eyes
It will disappear into the mists of the Adriatic.
There where no signs
There where no signs
By walking I found out
Where I was going.
By intensely hating, how to love.
By loving, whom and what to love.
By grieving, how to laugh from the belly.
Out of infirmity, I have build strength
Out of untruth, truth.
From hypocrisy, I weaved directness.
Almost now I know who I am,
Almost I have the boldness to be that man.
Another step
And I shall be where I started from.
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