To unearth the reason for a verb
because the truth is it's not time yet
and we don't know whether to rush forwards or take flight.
Make it evening, say an evening in December,
the teachests levered up on chocks of removal.
Give form to the darkness
whilst the cooking flares against the wall.
These are the nights of Western peace
and flying in their rays are the cramped biographies,
the berry-dark portraits, the scrolls of names.
A different quietness shields us on one side
like a marine weight wrapped in jute
and folded carefully, in desperation.
Translated by Jamie McKendrick
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem