My sister Piret is a very beautiful and very talanted young woman. One of her hobbies has always been writing. She has many stories and poems in both estonian and english. But here are some of her poems... About childhood and memories, about home and about grandparents... And about her new life in States....
I smile at the sea of a million lights
I feel threat in the work of uncountable minds
I hurry along new favorite paths
I see shadows around me and try to sneak past
I am blinded by the glare of a million lights
I revel in the charm of attractive minds
I stare at the stones in my favorite paths
I embrace the shadows but they fly past
September 1995, New York
Soft moss embraces our impatient feet
kisses them wetly like a green sea
Shy flowers twinkle like stolen rubies
hidden by their large leatherly leaves.
A lake is a curtain behind the trees
it glows too bright like a wonderful steel.
Small sounds of life that don't want to be seen
fill the air with their comforting cacophony.
We might not be here, or we might be
We could be a bird, a snake, or a tree
We are on a path which nowhere leads
We are but a visitor on this scene.
October, 1996
Around me, silence waits
The mist of unresolved probability
that is the future.
Far skies of blinking stars
Broken combs of frowning hills
Buried treasures of discoverable beauty.
Around me, silence whispers
Thoughts alien that are finally accepted
that are change.
Streams of images of underrated value
Groans of those who were afraid to speak
Uncertain steps of powerful rulers.
Around me, silence is broken
People who gather are but eyes and minds
they are a beginning.
Words of insignificant wisdom with dangerous weight
Riches that have lost the color of propriety
Silence that rings with bells of a new world.
May, 1996
Birch-trees bow on the graves
of my ancestors.
Softly weeping.
Evergreens extend dark limbs
over the mounds.
Quietly comforting.
Meadows remember silver voices
of my foremothers.
Silently mourning.
Trails wait for the footsteps
of my forefathers.
Slowly fading.
They are gone.
I am far from their resting place.
Once, meadows will weep for a daughter
who left them forever.
For children who do not return.
July 25, 1996
***
I want to reach the forest of hidden magic and great trees
that I still remember but have lost forever
for I have changed and the forest has forgotten me.
I want to hear the voice that made me smile long ago
summons of silvery voice now faded from life
I want to run barefoot across the meadow to my home.
1996
I thought my beliefs were like a garden
of precious flowers, pure, brilliant, and strong.
I stood dazed amidst their overpowering incense
never a doubt warned me that they didn't belong.
I thought there was a flower in my garden
it seemed simple, yet powerful, appealing, and strong.
Then one day my eyes focused. It was a weed
poisonous, yet powerful, insidious and long.
I was walking in the garden of my beliefs
infested since birth, untended by its keeper.
I was walking in a garden full of weeds
where prejudice was wrapping almost every flower.
What would happen if I killed those weeds?
Perhaps my beliefs would glow bright and free.
Perhaps the weeds were grown too close to flowers
and I would be left in the wasteland of my beliefs.
I pulled a weed from the garden of my prejudice
and another. It was dripping blood or water.
I grimaced in pain at the uprooted poison, so tenacious
yet weaker than I. I was fighting for my garden.
October, 1996
On a small grassy hill is a wooden bench
where they used to sit, together, at twilight
And speak in an almost forgotten dialect
of a small world that now is lost.
Names rung in the air that are tombstones now
Places came alive where now nobody walks
Fires lit where there now is no warmth
Tracks patterned the snow that now is so white.
On a small hill stands an empty wood bench
the place is so cold that once they touched
They are elsewhere now, forever at peace
Nobody is there to speak in their place.
October, 1996
When will we see our world? When will we see it
unblocked by the narcotic drone of preaching
unhindered by the march of pompous little screamers?
When will we see our world straight on?
When will we forsake prisms and colored glass
and the ingeniously twisted glittering mirrors?
When will we walk through the haze of our minds
without dread of monsters lurking in the mist
without suffocating in the fear of noxious fumes?
Perhaps never. Perhaps we will meander
drugged, sightless and cowardly, forever.
Perhaps we will see our world.
Perhaps our eyes will burn.
Perhaps we will step on a road to the future.
Nov. 17, 1996
NYC
© page: Killu
© poems: Milady