The tiering up
Of our whole lives far off, like a joyful
Sea lit up by a live water's sword.
We no longer need
Torn images to love,
The tree over there is enough for us, coming unbound
From itself with the light , knowing now
Only the name almost uttered of a god almost incarnate .
And all this high land burnt by the One so near
And the plaster of this wall touched by simple time
With its hands of no sadness, hands that have measured .
Translated
by
Lisa Sapinkopf
Rachel Hadas
AFTER THE STROKE
All day, the gong of silence.
Boom-boom
goes what's unspoken .
I
read you mild exotica;
mildly the spell is broken.
Basques; Madrid; Gibraltar;
the Raj in its last days;
gypSIes
In
a caravan;
Barcelona now. We laze
happily down the Ramblas,
its cobbles shadowed green
with foliage of spring plane trees.
Down with the Old Regime!
