I am here to boil the water,
make the tea. And when
the hooded carpenters arrive next door
absorb the first hammer blows.
Just offstage the sun
tries on different masks:
phoenix, mandrill, blood-red skull.
An owl shrieks.
My empty coffin coated with dew
collects its first ash.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem