The Garden Of Bright Waters | Page 9

will go to serve the bed
Of a fat man with no God,
A guts that
cannot walk,
A belly hiding his own feet,
A rolling paunch

Between itself and love.
She was slim and quick
Like the antelope of our hills
When he
comes down in the summer-time
To bathe in the pools of Tereck,

Her stainless flesh
Was all moonlight.

Her long silk hair
Was of so fine a gold
And of so honey-like a
brown
That bees flew there,
And her red lips
Were flowers in
sunlight.
She was fair, alas, she was fair,
So that her beauty goes
To a garden
of dying flowers,
Made one with the girls that mourn
And wither
for light and love
Behind the harem bars.
And you have dirty dreams
That she will be Sultane,
And you will
drink and boast
And roll about,
The grinning ancestor
Of little
kings.
Hugging your very wicked gold
Within a greasy belt,
You paddle
exulting like a bald ape
That glories to defile,
Unmindful of two hot
young streams
Of tears.
You stole this dirty gold,
For this gold means
Your daughter's
freedom
And your nephew's love,
Two fresh and lovely things

Groaning within your belt.
The sunny playing of our childhood
At the green foot of Elbours,

The starry playing of our youth
Beyond the flowery fences,
These
sigh their lost delights
Within your belt.
Give me the gold;
Damn you, give me the gold....
You kill my
mercy
When you kill my love....
Hold up your trembling sword;

For this is death.

I take the belt from the dead loins
That put away my love,
And turn
my sweet white horse
After the caravan....
With dirty gold and
clean steel

I'll set Aischa free.
Ballad of the Caucasus.

THE FLIGHT
Softly into the saddle
Of my black horse with white feet;
Your
brothers are frowning
And grasping swords in sleep.
My rifle is as
clean as moonlight,
My flints are new;
My long grey sword is
sighing
In his blue sheath.
Fatima gave me my grey sword
Of
Temrouk steel,
Damascened in red gold
To cut a pathway for the
feet of love.
My eye is dark and keen,
My hand has never trembled on the sword.

If your brothers rise and follow
On their stormy horses,
If they
stretch their hot hands
To catch you from my breast,
My rifle shall
not sing to them,
My steel shall spare.
My rifle's song is for my
yellow girl,
My eye is dark and keen,
I'll send my bullet to the
fairest heart
That ever lady loved with in the world.
My hand upon the sword
Shall be so strong,
He'll find the little
laughing place
Where you dance in my breast;
And we'll have no
more of the silly world
Where our lips must lie apart.
We'll let
death pour our souls
Into one cup,
And mount like joyous birds to
God
With hearts on fire,
And God will mingle us into one shape

In an eternal garden of gold stars.
Love Ballad of the Caucasus.
CHINA
WE WERE TWO GREEN RUSHES
We were two green rushes by opposing banks,
And the small stream
ran between.
Not till the water beat us down
Could we be brought
together,
Not till the winter came

Could we be mingled in a frosty
sleep,
Locked down and close.
_From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._

SONG WRITER PAID WITH AIR
I sit on a white wood box
Smeared with the black name
Of a seller
of white sugar.
The little brown table is so dirty
That if I had food

I do not think I could eat.
How can I promise violets drunken in wine
For your amusement,

How can I powder your blue cotton dress
With splinters of emerald,

How can I sing you songs of the amber pear,
Or pour for the
finger-tips of your white fingers
Mingled scents in a rose agate bowl?
_From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._
THE BAD ROAD
I have seen a pathway shaded by green great trees,
A road bordered
by thickets light with flowers.
My eyes have entered in under the green shadow,
And made a cool
journey far along the road.
But I shall not take the road,
Because it does not lead to her house.
When she was born
They shut her little feet in iron boxes,
So that
my beloved never walks the roads.
When she was born
They shut her heart in a box of iron,
So that my
beloved shall never love me.
From the Chinese.
THE WESTERN WINDOW
At the head of a thousand roaring warriors,
With the sound of gongs,

My husband has departed
Following glory.
At first I was overjoyed
To have a young girl's liberty.

Now I look at the yellowing willow-leaves;
They were green the day
he left.
I wonder if he also was glad?
_From the Chinese of Wang Ch'ang Ling (eighth century)._
IN LUKEWARM WEATHER
The women who were girls a long time ago
Are sitting between the
flower bushes
And speaking softly together:
"They pretend that we are old and have white hair;
They say also that
our faces
Are not like the spring moons.
"Perhaps it is a lie;
We cannot see ourselves.
"Who will tell us for certain
That winter is not at the other side of the
mirror,
Obscuring our delights
And covering our hair with frost?"
_From the Chinese of Wang Ch'ang Ling (eighth century)._
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