Vanda Martins is participating in the International Literary Creation Competition, 7th Edition, from Vilnius, Lithuania and is 66 years old. We thank her for her participation and wish her success.
There is no room…
There is no room for cowards anywhere
not on the banks of the river
called childhood
raking hay into stacks
under the scorching sun
sarcling at the roots
of thorny thirstles
following a herd of cows
with a whip
and a book of poetry
There is no room for cowards
on the shores of the ocean
called adulthood
trying to shed
village taboos and prejudice
searching for a subtle
almost imperceptible path
to a concealed in the mists
of the future
your destination
There is no room for cowards
before the orange-red
gates of the sunset
pondering about eternity
casting a thoughtful glance
into the past and present
feeling pain in your joints
and intoxicating clarity
in your head
and soul
There is no room for cowards…
where can I find those reeds
on the shores of what lakes
that will listen
to my doubts and fears
Gates of Dawn
There is no fire, so you shouldn’t run,
The shops and stalls will not be swept by torrent.
A lasting gift that Vilnius offers you, a precious one:
In awe the Gates of Dawn admire for a moment.
Your restless soul, your secret thoughts confer
As snow-white host of holy angels gathers
To lend their wings and take your praise to her –
Redeemer’s gracious and forgiving Mother.
Terrestrial sadness flows from downcast eyes.
Her darkened face is fine in golden covers.
Cascading from her shoulders run sidewise
Magnificent attire’s tangled flowers.
Above the icon, floating in sunshine –
Moniuszko litany’s exalted silver fable,
And strive the slender human hands Divine
Celestial child embrace and gently cradle.
In agony her Son died on the cross,
So may our path to heaven be elation...
But people are confused and sadly lost
And they believe in phantoms, not Salvation.
The heat
The heat caresses tarmac roads to tears
And people in the town are lacking sleep.
The only things that breathe the moisture staying clear
Of this asphyxiating hell are the entirely dampened sheets.
The roofs tiled red are burning like the poppies,
The bird songs stifled by the swelter streak,
And dogs, that drink from wooden bowls, are soppy,
Beside, a little crow pressed its audacious beak.
The sun is scorching like a merciless stoker,
Above Neris smoke’s dancing like a haze,
And urgent matters are so sick and broken,
That they doze off in nonsenses’ embrace.