No matter where they lived the same dream came
Of the invisible landlady whose voice
Quickened the air with a dark flame
The words they have always known, will always know
“You are unwanted! Go!”
And when they built a mansion and furnished it with art,
With love, with music, with the native flowers
It always happened, it was always the same,
The salon narrowed to a tomb,
Sometimes a servant’s voice, or a voice from the chandelier,
“You have no business here.”
And when they left for the remote island and became the idol
Of the indigenous tribe,
And were caressed, admired, and sheltered–then
Whose was the voice of blame?
That came when they assumed the garlands, the voice they knew
Saying “This is not for you, this is all untrue.”
And in the parks on Sundays with nursemaids, lovers, flowers,
And the bands playing and the fountains rising
In silver liquid hours,
Whose was th enemy? who was to blame?
If suddenly the observant shadows start
And cry “Depart! Depart!”
Now they have chosen exile, they have found a secluded house
In the smallest city, in the stillest shelter,
And they speak only to the wounded, the hunted, the lame,
The long evenings, the longer mornings, the longest noons,
And they wait for the bell to ring, for the landlady to appear.
And are they wanted here?
(Marya Zaturenska)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Flowers Poems, Art Poems, Cities Poems, Music Poems, Silver Poems, Enemy PoemsBased on Keywords: chandelier, stillest, landlady, salon, indigenous