IT WAS
THE
YEAR
1212
OF
THE
LORD'S
INCARNA-
TION
AND
THE
BISHOP'S
14th
YEAR
FOR THIS
WITH
THE
PILGRIMS
REJOICED
THE
WHOLE
LIVONIAN
CONGRE-
GATION
*       

Long since, the water in truth's wells is
   bitter,
Mixed with lies, it does not quench the
   thirst.
Fruit plucked unripened from the tree of
   knowledge
Has stripped the teeth. The mouth will go
   on hurting.

Full brims the cup of disillusion and be-
   lated doubt.

Rome like a jealous wife demands
That love be sworn to her in public
At every step... With spying eyes she
   reads
Between my lines, that she owns not
This heart, once so naive and yielding.
The translator falls mute. And thoughtful
   grows the jester.
And in dreams Courish boats sail down
to Riga.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
I know — they won't arrive. And, if they
   do,
In vain the blood. A scream above the
   walls.
And in a grave of fire we shall go silent.
And the clenched jaws will bitter ashen
   dust

Become.
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Still the boats sail and sail. And women 
   sing.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
*

AND
THE
BISHOP
SENT OUT
TO ALL
THE
LATGALIAN
AND
LIVONIAN
CASTLES
AND
TO ALL
THE LANDS
WHICH
BORDER
ON THE
RIVERS
DAUGAVA
AND
GAUJA
AND
GATHERED
A LARGE
AND
MIGHTY
FORCE
*     

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Our rivers turn arid.
Our menfolk are craven.
Blush for shame, our little sons,
Your fathers blush no more.
Our blood gushes out,
Eyes feed the ravens.
Foreign standards fathers bear,
Serve in foreign legions.
Calm the birch's whiteness,
Quick the axe's stroke.
Only — arm raised overhead —
Foreigners, attend!
Easily the tree is felled.
Not the roots extracted.
Our enmity is trickling water.
And your might — a rock.
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
I want to burn. Give me the funeral pyre!
Long was my life. But my life's waking —
   short.
The highest of my father's sacraments —

To climb toward heaven on a towering
   flame
And scream out the injustice by which
   my nation
With fiery iron was beset and 
slaughtered.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Is it injustice? 
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
*

BUT
ALSO THE
LIVONIANS
AND
LATGALIANS
BEING
MORE
RUTHLESS
THAN
OTHER
NATIONS
LIKE
THE
SERVANT
OF THE
GOSPELS
NOT
ENDOWED
WITH
MERCY
ON THEIR
FELLOWMEN
SLAUGHT-
ERED
COUNTLESS
PEOPLE
KILLING
ALSO
SOME
WOMEN
AND
CHILDREN
AND
DID NOT
WISH 
TO SPARE
ANYONE
ON THE
PLAIN
AND
IN THE
VILLAGES
*        

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
O, traitorous nation, is it worthwhile
To live for you, lay down my life for
   you?
O, cur-like nation! In place of bread
Your master dips in blood a roadside
   pebble.
Gulp then your blood! And the stone gulp
   with it!
And wag your tail! You have earned it
   well.
O, servile nation! In sweet joy you
   tremble
Because the master whips your brothers
Instead of you. Waiting, bare your teeth
To fall upon a brother's bloodied nape,
For in the master's hand a medal glitters
To be bestowed on you, when flesh with
   iron scourged
Stops twitching.
                      And once again a green
   branch
Will be severed from the verdure of your
   vital force
O swordsman's jubilation!
                     He can
With your assistance forge the axe for
   you.
When your obliging face grows too re-
   volting,
Where is that Judas tree
                    in which to hang
   myself,
Your, slavish nation, most abject slave,
Owned by the crusaders with sword and
   verse.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
*

...AND
TO THE
BISHOP
AKO'S
HEAD
AS
A TOKEN
PRESENTED
OF
VICTORY
AND FULL
OF JOY
HE
PRAISED
GOD
*        

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Feet in heavy honey steeping
   goes my master's horse.
Yet this night in honey scarlet
   father's head will soak.
In my master's sword the silver
   glitters and the gold,
Brightly, brightly will it flash
   above my mother's breast
And my master's riding cloak — 
   pure and silken snow.
How down in the darkening orchard
   shall my sister scream...
Goading steed, into the smooth flanks
   now the sharp spur dieings.
Acrid in my master's footsteps
   charing coals will linger.
In a parchment roll remain
   will the servant's writing,
That the Lord of Sabaoth
   was in His mercy by us,
And Our Lady Mary also —
   flower of innocence.
Oh how in the darkened orchard now my
   sister screams!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
*

AND
AFTER
THIS
FASHION
THE
INTRACT-
ABLE
AND
TO
PAGAN
MATTERS
MUCH
DEVOTED
NATION
WAS
LED
BY THE
VOICE
OF CHRIST
STEP
UPON
STEP
UNTO THE
YOKE OF
THE LORD
AND
ABANDON-
ING
THEIR
DARKNESS
THEY
GAZED
FAITH-
FULLY
UPON THE
TRUE
LIGHT
WHICH
IS
CHRIST
*       
BY
MY BEST
KNOWLEDGE
AND
CON-
SCIENCE
I HAVE
SAID
NAUGHT
BUT
THE TRUTH
TO
ANYONE'S
CREDIT
TO
ANYONE'S
CENSURE

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
I write, and from the words blood does
   not drip,
And the barbed bitterness of letters does
   not gash the page.
You, Jesus Christ, over my shoulder read
How Godfearingly for your fame I lie.
O Christ, your kingdom shall come over
   us,
One god and tongue. And nation also one.
I see the Latvian land with crossnails
   hammered
To the surface of your holy meekness.
Now what, you gentle one, our mourn-
   ful songs,
What harm do midsummer's wild blos-
   soms do you?
But not of flowers — of thorns the bloody
   crown
About the head should be... With pike-
   points must be ploughed
The wineyard of the Lord across our 
   bones
And brains. Not a trace left, or thought.
And our destruction — one more sunset
That in unerring concept Rome may 
   dawn
Over the earth... 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

          Oh, let your faithful servant
Still endure it. I greatly fear
That I shall rise against you, Christ.
From the dissembling cross ripped,
   naked,
Beneath your slave's feet into dust you'll 
   crumble.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

From dwellings blasted by the ashen
   winds
They'll come one day and ask me: why
At heaven and your nation do you rage?
Do we lack desolation, that our shame
Should still be sown abroad? Are we not
   mocked
Enough without you? And I will answer.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Scream, my nation! Writhe! Into your
   wounds
I will pour salt, that you may forget
Nothing. Grow in that painful hatred
   which is holier
Than tenderest forgiving. I die
With you, that you may be reborn. You
   shall
Hoard death, calamity, disgrace and
   shame!
And weep! Your tears will turn to steel
When the time comes. And evil will be
   visited
By iron rain. My hand is feeble
And cannot exact for injuries.
But words — they are a sword held
   double-edged
Above their castles and above your
   homes.

1968        

Translated from the Latvian by
Baiba Kaugara