As a relative, I have hope in common with no one
With no one the choice of love
With which I live alone, with which I stagger
Moving but subdued by the boundless landscape
In which death gleans the corn
All we're left with is time and not fleeing
And all that moves on the earth,
All we're left with is the last journey of two weary people
Taking their leave of the womb at term.
As everyone saw it, as everyone heard it
And as will happen to everyone
Depending on the distance from the distance, the glow
Through the shadow play of my shadow.
As a relative I turn to stone with the scent of the woman
And the convulsion of the beetles on the deadly moss.
While truth engenders horror,
Becomes a wild cloud, and worms arbitrarily
Gnaw through the first beam in our house,
I come to you and finger your clothes
I kiss you, bent over, crouching, torn in two.
Again we grow older and smaller
And more reckless in the steady rain,
In which we wear mourning for the many past bonds
Onward through the lowlands of depression.
Translation Paul Vincent
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.