From: The Magic of Not Claiming (1990)
On the Scent
The past follows you, a faithful hound.
Thrown down there on your scent;
on deserted pathways, speechless bushes.
With a frightening smell that cancels
all distance, searching in the lentisk
for your unseen dormition. Your dung
which the galaxies of viscera prepare
with wisdom. There, he says,
that's a mountain rabbit's filth.
The little hair that shines, caught
on the thorn of the wilderness,
is the chasm of your presence.
Your ancient print a record
interprets your destiny
among hunting dogs.
Translated by Avi Sharon
Page(s) 33
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