Sparse song dark thread
Land like a sheet
That sinks
Springland of hooves and milk
And children of willow
Fever and summerland when the sun
Makes its young in the corn
Blond fencing
With the deaf-mute farmers by the dead firesides
That pray ‘May God forgive us for
What he has done to us.'
With the fishermen who burn on their boats
With the spotted animals the foaming women
That sink
Land you break into me. My eyes are shards
I in Ithaca with holes in my skin
I borrow your air in my words
Your bushes your lime trees hide in my language
My letters are: West Flanders dune and polder
I drown in you
Land you become a gong in my skull and sometimes
Later in the harbours
A conch: May and beetle Dim light
Earth.
Translation John Irons
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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