The Garden
Millions and millions of years
Would still not give me half enough time
To describe
That tiny instant of all eternity
When you put your arms around me
And I put my arms around you
One morning in the cold winter light
In the Parc Montsouris in Paris
In Paris
On this earth of ours
This earth which is a star.
* * * * * * *
Wrestling With the Angel
for J.B. Brunius
Don't bother
The fight's fixed
The match is rigged
and when he or she or it appears aloft above the ring
surrounded by spotlights
they'll all start singing the TE DEUM
and even before you have the chance to get up from your little chair in the corner
their gong will sound
they'll throw their sacred sponge in your eyes
And you won't even get in a quick jab to the feathers
before they all grab you
and he or she or it will hit you below the belt
and you'll fall flat
arms stuck out stiff in an idiotic cross
outstretched in the sawdust
and you may never again be able to make love.
above translated by Michael Benedikt
* * * * * * *
final poem, "In Vain" translated by Teo Savory
In Vain
An old man howling at death
rolls his hoop across the square
He cries that it's winter and all is done
that the match is rigged the dice are thrown
the bets are made the mass is sung
the piece is played and the curtain down
In vain
in vain
They call me, those friends who can't stand me
they're running to fat and they stand watch in hand
asking me questions they don't understand
In vain
in vain
Others more dead than alive walking blind
trailing their childhood dreams behind
And those well-tailored clubmen
bore you to tears with political fears
that the country's in danger the course is run
the statue's of clay the time has come...
Already I hear at the foot of the square
the roll of the muffled drum
the bugle is blowing the garden is closing
In vain
in vain
For those who loved it the garden stays open
* * * * * * *
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