We looked for something past remembrance
cutting through some fields of emerald green
like a ploughed furrow waiting for a seed to grow
we looked for something past remembrance
something that's not yet solidified, like a black crow
something that's not unnoticeable and is-eerily seen
we looked for something past remembrance
vexed all things have a known resemblance.
Until we hit upon a coagulated black oak bough
that was no longer the yolk of an acorn green
no longer a sapling, oak, here only a bog oak now
the remains of which wanted-kindling in gasoline
it was something past all remembrance
it was something past all resemblance
wanting, discarded—only to be fanned into flames.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem