I touch hatred like a covered breast;
I without stopping go from garment to garment,
sleeping at a distance.
I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,
I do not live in this house.
My mouth is full of night and water.
The abiding moon determines
what I do not have.
What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.
There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,
no vicious eyelid.
I live suddenly and other times I follow.
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.
I have no time.
Do not look for me when drawing
the usual wild thread or the
bleeding net.
Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my condition.
Leave me in the middle of my own moon
in my wounded ground.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
Sloppy translation
From guest Samartha Vashishtha (contact)
I've read better translations of this beautiful poem. -
-
Samartha Vashishtha
Would you like to suggest another translation or send us links?
-
Adding your comment:
