The River of Bees

In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was olderSoon it will be fifteen yearsHe was old he will have fallen into his eyesI took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I liveOne man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by nameOnce once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I sayHe will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grassI return to his voice rising like a forkful of hayHe was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing waterWe are the echo of the futureOn the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live