Three Poems

'When I died at Marathon, I saw this only:
By my head the fennel was growing, slowly.'
                                                          Frank Thompson, 1941

'After the firing squad - the worms.'
                                                          Nikola Vaptsarov, 1942


Litakovo. The garlic breath of Spring
Begins to thaw the feet of these old hills,
Warm welcome for returning cranes who'll bring
The luck that resurrects what Winter kills.

The frozen fields below begin to stir
From heavy dreams of snow. The flowers keep
Their vigil for Persephone. The year
Turns over slowly, after months of sleep.

Cold-fingered Boreas, foundation-king
Of these cold hills, once wrestled with the sun
To prove that he was stronger than the Spring,
...