He doesn't come the way you thought
from rose-coloured glaciers
with a dead stag in his arms.
Quietly he creeps out of
the sunflowers' sparks,
his eyes are golden,
his hands those of a ploughman.
We meet like friends
on an ant's trail:
Death with a primrose in his teeth,
you with a cake under your arm.
The primrose of salamader skin
the cake of sweat and sand.
He with primrose wine
you with a mouthful of cake,
both in the jaws of time.
As you lay down together
on a bed of nettles
Death's nine larks
began a lullaby.
And the warm breezes too
fell asleep under the stone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem