Who would want to live without the comfort of trees!
Aren’t we lucky that they are mortal!
The peaches have been picked, the plums are coloring up
while time swoops under the bridge.
I confide my despair to the bird formations heading south.
Calmly they measure out their portion of eternity.
become visible as a dark compulsion in the foliage.
The moving of wings colors the fruit.
We must be patient.
Soon the sky-writing of birds will be deciphered.
Don’t you taste the copper penny under your tongue?
Angina Days: Selected Poems
Princeton University Press
Tradução de Michael Hoffman