Remember the small
figures of mud
you made many years ago?
No sculptor, playing god,
so proud,
so satisfied
with your creation—
gnomish, grotesque
Adam and Eve
from the epoch
of socialism...
Not interested anymore,
having to do something else
you left them outside.
In the garden
I found the creatures
one morning,
small colorless clowns
with wrinkled wry smiles
on wind-beaten faces,
nets of thin cracks
in tiny clay hearts—
they seemed so brave.
Look at ourselves in a mirror—
the same Adam and Eve,
fissures in little hearts—
praying, waiting for God
or Godot,
are we as brave as we seem?
