About the puff of dust that rises
between the forsythias and the passing cars,
about this atmosphere of rain, these dead bodies
on television,
look-out calls of crows, sirens
of ambulances,
nobody tells us anything for sure.
The little bar burnt out, the woman
embracing her Dobermann
in the shelter of the gateway there -
the bad or good in them -
we have lost the power to gauge it.
Faces, broken bottles, branches in flower:
the sea in which we're swimming
pours
into our eyes without end.
And yet when they call out to me
I still turn round - you see?
and make an answer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem