How futile the prayer you say every evening
Or at six in the morning in the ashy light!
Like scattering five grains on arid ground,
Asking for help through the door of a deserted hut.
The words are plastered like gelatin on the tongue —
Sofrightening, this language of the enemy,
As if the knives of forty lipsare cutting you,
As if a scythe is waved over you two hundred times in the grasslands.
Toss and turn at night!
Do not be afraid of the wind's howling
Like a transfusion machine brought for you—it makes you old, it ...