I abhor the shame, the shudder of the past
When everything was more than being and nothing else.
When each moment unmoved, became the movement
That must repeat what once was hushed up
And which was offended against. Inhuman as man
Far from the many tracks, I quit madness
And abhor the truth that is twisted
The booty that's divided. I escape my efforts
And together with soliloquy, the one I am.
I have covered my distances, left my prints
And mortified, washed up, I was hoist out of time
Alone and divorced from solitudes and loyalty.
Ghosts were left, swelling over the thresholds
Of my suspicion, of my fear that fails
That recoils and hankers, consumed by sterility
After the domination of the new futility.
As wretched as the wretchedness I confuse the days
The wilfulness and the pity that calms memory.
Estranged from everything, wounded and lost
I forget the riddles, the plaintive names I gave her.
In the tedium of wounds, in mist after dew
I'm perhaps left with staring, the same face
As if no one has ever existed anywhere, no voice
Rejoiced or wailed. The ills brought no knowledge
And greyer and further, her smells no happiness.
Translation: Paul Vincent
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.