In the latin of the fields Poem by Lutz Seiler

once founded we are a phloem
on the bark
a guest of the bark & inner child
of the arterial roads. these

roads are a softly spoken
language even beyond what's been
said past the gardens
to the latin of the fields. there

the child sits on a hill the
world is made of sand murmered languages
roll inwards also
want water bridges

& roads
need softly
rolling languages one's
own child in the latin of the fields

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock