A Fool's Word

A slag heap, the word,
beaten down with stones
in this slag heap, the echo
carted off (though I didn't
cart it away again)
call to us
that it was not
the beginning
it was the end.

The blessing of morphine,
but not
the blessing of a word,
the blessing of a fresh made bed,
but not
the blessing of holding hands.
And yet no hand,
no words, hold a blessing.

Ingeborg Bachmann
Darkness Spoken: The Collected Poems
Zephyr Press, 2006
Tradução de Peter Filkins

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