* * *

It's thus now: every evening of the new moon
The contours of Veltista I distinguish
And he descends along the strings of silver
And seats himself outside the window frame.
I know it rains. The water is unceasing
With relentness of some unknown piper,
Who wants too eagerly to be renowned
And tortures music in this hopeless chase.

Veltista thus beginneth, 'You are surely,
Not capable of infinite creation
From which you are with years separated,
With cocons of the windows and of rain.'
I answer him, 'Though being is infinite,
Who is to prove the finiteness of cocoon?
And if there is no fruit on certain fig tree,
The tree itself or gardener is to blame?'

Veltista sayeth on, 'You know your wisdom
Is nothing more than grain of sand in ocean
With not a wave but only sand and stones;
No stones but the waves warm of sand.'
I answer, 'Truly, who am I to dare
To match divine metaphora of heaven!'
Veltista smiles, and grains are softly singing
On his mat-skinned and pale-glistening wrist.

Continues he, 'You know that all you waters
Are flowing on, and flowing back into you.'
The tiny bell of moonlight straight from nowhere
With milky ringing fills the endless night
I answer him, and I am also smiling,
'It's all that simple, venerable rabbi:
We're all gone nuts on things of light and kindness.'
Veltista sinks in silence outside.

© Tikkey A. Shelien 1994
Translation © Stepan M. Pechkin 1996