They are a gust of wind,
silence, nothing at all, anxiety.
At my temples and wrists
they become trees,
their branches entwining,
their tops reaching for the light.
Several peoples have left
their tracks in my blood.
They are the substance,
I am their form.
(Or am I their substance,
they my form?)
The hunter, fisher, sower
all continue to live their secret lives in my  veins.
The first two dwell in the shadows;
I long to ask the third
who reaps
the very last harvest -
or do the birds carry
the last grains with them into the air?
I go along with the birds,
my fingers pressed deep into
the neck feathers of the old wild goose -
every autumn I take flight
towards myself and perpetuity.


Cold, cold,
solid stone,
wet against the cheek.
Wet against the cheek,
heavy near the heart,
stone solid cold.
Stone solid cold,
blood hardens in the veins,
shadow on the blood,
casts an evil eye,
dangles from the fingernails,
wing brushes heart's rim,
shadow off the lips,
shadow down the wind,
shadow into dreams,
shadow into snowdrift,
caught in creviced stone.
Into it a wedge,
over it the sign of the cross,
onto it a handful of light!


We know.
We believe and we don't.
We pass random words
back and forth like a baton
then cast down we are silent.
We are two sealed letters,
just sent before the snow,
with news in the language
of angels? birds? people?
A sound never-ending, compelling,
like the flutter of wings wanting to fly
beats against the envelope.
We know,
and hand dropping in acquiescence,
the weight of snow on our eyelids,
we watch over ourselves becoming words.

I watch over you from night into morning,
in the dim light shadows like giants
over my face.
You talk the morning into day,
the world wakes to your voice.
But I don't hear
before evening has come
and meaning has been born on the words.

     Livia Viitol 2006
     translation Ilmar Lehtpere 2006