The Ballade

Round us they dance, they dance, they dance,
Invisible shadows, they appeal
To us and give enchanting chance
To apprehend, that we are real,
The rills, the rivers with the sprays
Who in the ocean hide their dread
And whose unceasing whisper says:
Round you the spectres. They are dead.

We try in hardship to advance,
We seek our mean, but meaning meal,
The mail of maggots, and we glance,
We scrutinize and see the seal
Of silence; and our plausible plays
Can only fascinate instead
Of teaching; somebody decays,
Who sings: we are together dead.

But what remains us? Must we lance
In worship? Is the war our weal?
If so, then why we look askance
At only weapon, that can heal,
At our cross, which maybe sways
Our destiny? To catch the thread
Of the salvation he, who prays,
Strives, tries and hears: Your God is dead.

But from nowhere return the rays,
Against us and in us they spread.
God resurrects in all His ways:
Nothing and nobody is dead.

21.11.1997.