*tuule makett - Infopoint Estonian Culture

9 1 / Uku Masing
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Your body rises from my arms to meet me
like an island from the ocean
that does not turn its gaze from the palm rafters of heaven,
its eyes, half-open, hold back the clouds.
The wind fears to sink down on the island’s soil:
for perhaps each peak would fall to the seabed,
the quavering voice fade away out of reach,
and the forest’s mane melt in the foam like a tired flag.
The wind holds back, but the island wants to know
how to summon it when the the moon rises
tomorrow evening, as each flowering tree
suddenly knows how to bend its head.
It recklessly lifts itself against the squall,
the thin seam of silver ore grows dull,
the ravenstone in its bosom is fired until red-hot
so that the heat arches high over the water.
When the wind tires and sinks down to doze
mouth-down on the island, I can never recall,
I only remember: a dreaming head, wet with foam,
looking for the lips of a coral reef.