Old padre, dry
as a cricket’s chirp,
as a lizard’s burp—
old padre, why
do you go to the well
at blazing mid-day
when everyone’s away
in shade, in sleep. Tell
why even the town’s
lunatic has enough sense
to nap under an immense
oak, but not you. My own
notion is it’s not
for water that you
come, surely not to
set an example. What
then? Is it to show
yourself to God’s blaze
of scrutiny, God’s gaze,
before you go?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem