After Georgi Gospodinov
Why does death
love us so much?
It sings like an angel
inviting and golden,
but as Rilke declared,
always terrifying.
Birds, trees, rocks
carry on without death,
are not ever lured
beyond being.
Air does not know
ending, only passages,
tunes, cries in the night.
Every poem ends
in dissolution,
in several ceasings,
each different and alive.
Words know where to go,
how to stop meaning
like obedient children
in the garden of dreams.
