Thistle

Thistle

A bouquet of thistle was carried in

And set upon the table.

Before me arose fire and chaos

And a crimson dance of flames.

These stars with sharp points,

These shards of the northern dawn

Peal and moan like small bells,

Blazing up from within like lanterns.

This is also an image of the universe,

An organism spun of rays,

The flame of an unfinished battle,

The blaze of raised swords.

This is a tower of rage and glory,

Where spear is set against spear, 

Where bunches of flowers, with bloody heads,

Cut right into my heart.

I dreamed of a tall dungeon

With bars as black as night,

Behind the bars was a fabulous bird,

The one that no one could help.

But I too, it seems, live badly,

For I have no strength to help.

And the wall of thistle rises up

Between me and my joy.

A wedge-shaped thorn has pierced

My breast, and now the sad and wonderful

Gaze of her unquenchable eyes

Shines on me for the last time.

(1956)