Also for the children who go away in the dark
and you can't hold them back
not even as blood
beloved between your hands
lies Chartres which rises against the sky
an hour of ugly train from the capital
great rock that fills up with spires and figures
calling on the only God that understands
what it means to lose a son, see him
vanish, see him
go in the arms, so far too open,
of the wind
and now lower the head
on the bench, on the fleeting light
of rain in the fields
on the window pain that trembles
in the empty compartment
under the eye-lids the fire
that exults and cries
in those large windows
and wears out the gaze until it leaves
on the face only the beginnings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem