The Plough
Five o’clock. Snowing still. I hear voices
At the front of the world.
A ploughshare, sharp
Like the backward moon,
Shines, and then
Is muffled by night in a fold of the snow.
And now the child
Possesses the whole house. He moves
From window to window. He presses his hand
Against the pane. He sees
Drops form where he ceases to push
The mist outwards to a falling sky.
Translated by Michael Edwards
Page(s) 16
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