What Remains In Our Eyes Poem by Roman Pines

What remains in our eyes from former red-hot fires?
From the midday sun? From the whirlwind as the century goes?
From love and from pain? Only cracks in stone days
on Earth’s plateaus.

In midnight wastes, in dark blue, deserted fields,
where Selene flares up and drowns in milk-white depths,
the face of silence shines, and, like poplar cotton,
a twinkling sphere softly lands on your palm.

You still have not had an enormous gulp of vastness,
but somewhere there’s singing out in the dream-wrapped space,
and your lips are relaxed, and your ancient thoughts are simple:
What remains in eyes of wandering place to place?

Huge branches are swaying there in a swarm of shadows.
Cold, bitter winds there fan the fog of night.
A twinkling sphere, a twinkling sphere turning rose
floats above Earth and softly says good-by.