Had I not grown suddenly short of breath,
I'd have sung hosannas. But the poor beast
that I found lay martyred beyond its death.
The holy sun was rising in the East,
and I was watering bright illusions
as sweet and as old as Plato and Christ.
Birds in arbours were making allusions
to Eden, and I was bound for a tryst
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem