Bushels of light from the electric maples
float in the underpass.
Night enters the cemetery like a spade.
Only dawn has promised
erasure, blessed erasure
of all memories of this corner.
We have the look, we all
have the look of people who are waiting.
We eat from a bowl of sirens.
Only the long face
of night is not yet mottled,
the white face of night.
It is the night's last blessing.
Erasure, the long-promised
erasure will soon occur.
I admire the tightness of this. 15 compressed lines, perfect in sound and image, and you've said it all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My God Martin this is good. I hope Sue has used it for 10 X 3. It's incredibly atmospheric. 'Night enters the cemetery like a spade' and 'We eat from a bowl of sirens' are terrific, and you prepare the way for them so subtly. Stunning. A perfect blending of content and form. jim