The poet just like the soldier

has no private life.

His private life is dust

and ashes.

 

He uplifts in the claws of his convolutions

the ant’s feelings

and draws them, draws them nearer to his eye

until they turn into his own eye.

 

He lends his ear to the belly of the hungry dog

and with his nose he scents its half-opened muzzle

until his nose and the dog’s muzzle

are one and the same.

 

On the torrid days

he fans himself with the birds’ wings

whom he himself frightens to make them fly.

 

Don’t believe the poet when he’s weeping.

His tear is never his own tear.

He has squeezed out tears from things.

He weeps with the tears of things.

 

The poet is just like the time.

Faster or slower,

More deceitful or more truthful.

 

Beware of telling anything to the poet.

All the more, beware of telling him the truth.

But most of all beware of telling him a soulful thing.

 

In no time he would say it is he who has stated this,

and he would say it in such a way that

even yourselves will believe

he has actually stated this.

But I particularly beseech you,

do not touch the poet !

No, do not touch the poet !

 

… But solely when your hand

is as narrow as the ray

and only so your hand could

pass through him.

 

Or else it will not pass through him,

and your fingers will be stamped on him,

and he will be the one to boast

he has got more fingers than you.

And you will find yourselves compelled to agree,

to say that he has got more fingers indeed…

 

But it’s better, if you would believe me,

it would be the best

never to touch the poet.

 

… And it’s not even worth touching him…

The poet just like the soldier

has no private life.

 

 

From Too Much Air

 

Both of us were

boundless and innocent

Nothing, nothing could separate

the two of us

Each glance would pierce

Both of us all at once

Your shoulder was my arm

my eye was your shadow

your breath was

my heart

my ankle was

your eyelash

your mouth was

my sight

my nostril was

your rib

Both of us were

boundless and innocent

when out of the blue

we disturbed each other

like the air pressed

under the wing of the soaring bird.

 

English version by Gabriela PACHIA