THE DAGGER

Back in the fall we had burried our dagger
In this courtyard covered with square tiles.
That dagger was both precious and sharp,
Its handle must have melted away by now
Looking like the mossy hair of the herdsmen.

The blood of worms and hawks must be cleaning
On to its skeleton lying in the ground.
Spilling all over the bloods-tiles of the yard
The blood of the hawks that sent their flight
Deep down in the form of a dishevelled line.

The sea has lit the lamps on its street,
The dagger recieved its only defeat from us.
Out of the land of its spout it gazes at night,
At birds that cling to their wings as they fall.
We recieved our final defeat from the dagger.

It frightens for some reason the grey silence
Of a beggar's voice and the mountaineers'sky,
If frightens the faces of rope-hearted seamen
Who cross the seas each with a panther on his back:
That noise which the dagger makes while rustling.

ÜLKÜ TAMER