The Other Shore of the Sea
It is time, love, to break off the somber rose,
shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth;
and, in the rising of the light, wake with
those awaking, or go in the dream, reaching the
other shore of the sea which has no other shore.
Days Late in March
Days move in one direction
faces in the opposite.
Incessantly they lend each other light.
Many years later it is difficult
to decide which were days
and which were faces . . .
And the distance between the two things
seems more impassable
day by day and face by face.
It is this I see in your face
these bright days in late March.
Dage sent i marts
Dage bevæger sig i én retning
ansigter i den modsatte.
Uophørligt låner de hinandens lys.
Mange år efter er det vanskeligt
at afgøre hvad der var dage
og hvad der var ansigter . . .
Og afstanden mellem de to ting
føles mere uoverskridelig
dag for dag og ansigt for ansigt.
Det er det jeg ser på dit ansigt
Disse lysende dage sent i marts.
In the Tongues of Bells
I decant a blossom. It goes before you.
You’re filled with Uriah. Green, tiny and pressed.
Blueness is a furious cake, a round
cake where yearning sleeps. Are the balls
the balls of the earth? At wells
and fountains? At Atlas’ pillar?
You say that you’d be my property.
You’d lose everything instantly.
I still wouldn’t notice you anymore, injured.
I choose from the thickness. Honey collects
cries. And when the body thickens and you get up
because I dress you, because I congeal you.
I erase you back in the past. I draw
a white flap, shine a white flap.
you’re leaving and not looking back
the age-old fear of turning into stone
now germinates in you like pain
that something passes and you’re left alone
you’re leaving and you carry much
in that mute threat of yours
without a note, forgiveness, or farewell
cold marble, dry-eyed, no remorse.
You’re leaving hurriedly and without voice
and flapping like a startled bird:
you disappear beyond return and soon
become a shadow, neither seen nor heard.