A strong perfume that cannot but escape its flask,
because it penetrates glass,
is memory,
out of which a soul first comes.
Later, as its plural, memory revivifies a lost soul,
over-revivifies it,
until, giddy, it fixates on a failed love
until the spinning stops at the last,
when the air
is the same on this,
as on that,
side of the glass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem