Trees III
Trees, stubborn workers
slowly piercing earth
Thus the heart holding fast
perhaps, purifies
I will hold in my eyes
a reddening more of dusk than of dawn
a call less to day than to night
a flame asking to be hidden by night
I will have this mark upon me
of nostalgia for the night
even if I went through it
with a bill-hook of milk
*
There will always be however in my eye
an unseen rose of regret
as when over a lake
the shadow of a bird has passed
*
And the clouds piled high in the blue air
that are loops of ice
the voice’s steaming blur
that one listens to forever hushed
Translated by Paul Auster
Page(s) 14-15
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