BORIS CHRISTOV
Spirit
Tired of watching my body stuff itself
Hunched over its dish of stewmeat and its glass,
My spirit flew away like a celestial wolf
Trotting the heavens on its invisible paws.
Where are you headed for through infinite space,
Proud flier, howling at the dark around you?
In the boundless universe, could there be any place
Still undiscovered, beyond these that surround you?
But from the moment that the spirit-wolf trod
Among the stars he was coursing toward the purlieus
Of the hidden sheepfold where the lambs of God
Graze the deep grasses ofParadise's meadows.
The gates, in ruin for many a millenium,
Lay in a heap close by a cherry tree.
With a predator's watchful air about him,
My spirit wriggled under the fence stealthily.
"Wait a minute, you winged wolf, before you dare
Sneak into that trap ofknowledge. It will snap once,
Then nothing will be left of you in there.
You'll eat at yourself till nothing's left but bones."
But how can anything cross the mighty gulf
Of deafness that yawns between the lips and the ears?
Having strangled the Lamb of God, the wolf
Of my spirit padded the moon-path among the stars.
The ram who saw him in the dark began to weep.
The plaintive bleating of the whole flock joined his cry.
The cosmos itselfburst into tears with the sheep,
And blood-stained stars fell from the grieving sky.
Meanwhile, on earth, my body was wiping the grease
From its muzzle. Drinking and eating too much made it heavy.
On the table before it, instead of the Golden Fleece,
Lay only a mess of bones in a puddle of gravy.
