Saturday, September 3, 2011

Stairway in Hiroshima

by Leopoldo Max T. Gerardo
p. 326, A Native Clearing, Ed. by Gemino Abad

Young man, how is the world?
How is the world for whom you
Seem to wear those old medallions,
Those blue scars, that in their
Fusions remain as testimonials,
Knit and intimate, upon your
Lonely brow? If it is for the
Young girl in the old house you
Wear them--the young girl who
Would blush in her pink room while
You looked up at the proud ascent
Of my steep breast that would not
Yield to you--then wait for the
Moonlight when her white ghost leaves
Her ashes and springs to my breast
To wade in the cool of the chemical
Dew. What have you brought home
About the world: you, warrior,
Tourist in your native heart? It
Never came back to the city where
Once it played its brief sport, so
Brief indeed it ended at the start.
In my highness, accustomed to winter
And sun, I have stood alone. Now my
Shoulders crumble, and from the
City's gray around me, a reptile
Had slithered, and now exhales
Into the crack on my heart of stone.
If you came home to die, young man,
Since the world, now in other
Playgrounds, will never know you,
Lie down upon my foot in the cool
Oblivion of my shade. It is here
She perished in the instant sport,
Her ashes, complete and beautiful,
Gently laid. In my coat of moss,
I shall watch over you, your blue
Medallions upon the gray ash that you
Wed, and from this potent loop--my
Necklace of wind-born seeds from the far-off world--
I shall offer the city, your
Grave, one diadem greening: one fern of hope.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

Thanks for posting this evocative poem, verbal arts at d service of the tragic vision.