A woman sketching, a man steeped in gin—
Note how the final scene assembling
In the rain shadow of a mountain range
Ablaze from ridge to ridge carries no hint
Of the catastrophe: the smoke, the wind.
o
Nor do the daily rushes, catalogued
For a committee of historians
Attempting to discern the exact moment
Of the republic’s death, contain instructions
For the executor of the estate—
o
The editor, that is, who was unwisely
Sacked on the second day of shooting, then hired
By the film maker’s estranged wife to save
From the approaching fire a commentary
On eschatology: The Seventh Seal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem