What is that calling on the wind
that never seems a moment still?
That moves in darkness like a hand
of many fingers taken chill?
What is it seeking when it flows
about my head, and seems to wrest
All motion from my heart, as though
I still had something to confess?
How can it be it knows my crime -
this troubled whistling in the air?
‘Tis true, I left her long behind,
but this is dark, and she was fair.
First published in The New Formalist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is marked by an objectivity of tone which makes his murder of her more chilling. Was it an act of passion or cold fury? You don't tell us, but the closing stanza shows the righteous Furied are uopn him and they will not let go. The darkness he senses will eventually envelope him and her fairness in his memory will offer neither refuge nor relief.