This language has no innocence
- listen to how speeches break up
as if also here there were a war
a different war but war
all the same - in a time of drought.
And so I write with reluctance
with a few dry stumps of phrases
boxed into humdrum language
which I arrange so as to call out
down there as far as the dark
that sounds the bells
There's a window in the night
with two dark shapes asleep
dun as birds
whose bodies draw back against the sky.
I write with patience
to the eternity I don't believe in.
Slowness comes to me from silence
and from a freedom - invisible -
which the mainland's unaware of
- the island of a thought which spurs me
to rein in time
to give it space
inventing the desert for that language.
The word splits like wood
like a piece of wood cracked on one side
part the effect of fire
part of neglect.
Translated by Jamie McKendrick
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem