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Philippe Jacottet

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Winter's End

Little of anything, nothing
to purge the terror of losing space
is left to the wandering soul

But perhaps, more nearly of air,
unsure it will last,
is the soul that sings
with purest voice
the distances of earth

*

A seeding of tears
on the changed face,
the glittering season of streams
that surge and overflow:
sorrow hallowing earth

Time watches snow
withdraw on the mountains

*

In the grass that survives through winter
these shadows weighing less than grass,
the shy, patient woods
with the discretion and faith

of still unseen death

Always in the eddying day
this whirr about our bodies
Always in the field of day
these tombs of blue slate

*

The true, the untrue
absorb each other in smoke

World unsheltered
as beauty is when over1oved,
to pass in you is to praise
the kindled dust

The true, the untrue
blaze, scented ash

 

Translated by Paul Auster

Page(s) 20-21

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