We Move On to a Country -
II. WE MOVE ON TO A COUNTRY
We move on to a country not of our flesh. Its chestnut trees are not part of our bone marrow.
Its stones are not goats in the song of mountains, its pebble eyes are not lilies of the valley.
We move on to a country that suspends no singular sun over us.
For us the women of legend clap their hands: a sea for us and a sea against us.
If wheat and water are cut off from you, then eat our love and drink our tears.
Black handkerchieves for the poets. A line of marble statues will raise our voices up
And a stone mortar to guard our souls from Time's dust. Roses against us and roses for us.
You have your glory and we have ours. Ah, how we are troubled by a country of which we see only what is invisible: our secret.
Ours is the glory: a throne carried on feet torn by roads that have led us to every home but ours.
It is for the spirit to find spirit in itself, or to die here.
We move on to a country not of our flesh. Its chestnut trees are not part of our bone marrow.
Its stones are not goats in the song of mountains, its pebble eyes are not lilies of the valley.
We move on to a country that suspends no singular sun over us.
For us the women of legend clap their hands: a sea for us and a sea against us.
If wheat and water are cut off from you, then eat our love and drink our tears.
Black handkerchieves for the poets. A line of marble statues will raise our voices up
And a stone mortar to guard our souls from Time's dust. Roses against us and roses for us.
You have your glory and we have ours. Ah, how we are troubled by a country of which we see only what is invisible: our secret.
Ours is the glory: a throne carried on feet torn by roads that have led us to every home but ours.
It is for the spirit to find spirit in itself, or to die here.
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