Eva SKRANDE

DESTINY

Destiny of blue fingers, flying over a dynasty of brides,
take from the dusk, the priesthood of your violins.

Destiny where earth lies down, and the bread of history takes root,
that lifts the dawn from the eyelids of shame.

Destiny, in your wilderness, the lament of shoulders becomes the dust's ship.
Let the sailors pay homage to your harvest's forgetfulness.

Destiny of sheep revered, and the dawn of spoons.

Destiny of oranges and the deer's food,
no ocean withstands the wake of your shoes.

Destiny of the horses' empty hoofs, of the bracelet of luck
unfolding, of the sun and the flute's embrace.

Destiny of dust, of burning terraces, of jockeys, of shoes finding their way
home in the dark.

Destiny of the cliff's sacrifice, of the suspicion of empires,
of insomnia forgotten by history's guitars.

Destiny with regard for the dreams of mountain goats,
which fills our balconies with the flags of nomads.

Destiny of handmaidens, of the bluejay's circumference,
of glass sandals, of cries that break the talons of rivers.

Destiny of ox hearts and roses, in this life of horseshoes and grapes,
let us be the blacksmith's anvil, the bevy of bees on the banks of your lips.

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