Parting Words

To my son, Anatoly

With eyes shut tight, I find my own way back
To that deathless temple of the radiant peaks,
Where dreams alight, and on their gentle track
Brush the tight-closed bud of the soul that seeks.

I feel the unseen movement, the vibration
Upon the keys of hanging glaciers, white –
And then begins the toccata of ascension,
Aflame with all the fires of snow and light.

And all the world's vain hustle stays below,
The receded years retreat and take their leave,
And standing with us on the summit's brow
Are all the ones who here did never cleave…

The sighs of clouds above the ice-fields' sheen
Are, as before, so weightless and so hushed…
I see again the standing stone, black, serene,
The river's silver thread, so brightly flushed,

The hoary dawn above a tent, so new,
The burning blades of ridges, sharp and grand…
My plane is starting its descent. The view –
I see the mountains. Hello, Bezengi-land.

June 29, 2004