Veins filled with sun — not blood —
On my hand, brown so soon.
I am at one with my great love
To own my soul.
I am waiting for a grasshopper, I count to a hundred,
Chewing a stalk's spine...
— Strange to feel so strongly and so simply
The fleetingness of life — and mine.
Солнцем жилки налиты — не кровью —
На руке, коричневой уже.
Я одна с моей большой любовью
К собственной моей душе.
Жду кузнечика, считаю до ста,
Стебелёк срываю и жую…
— Странно чувствовать так сильно и так просто
Мимолётность жизни — и свою.
«I don’t know if you’re dead or still living, / If I should seek you on earth, or alas, / Sitting pensively, in the evening, / Warmly grieve for the one who has passed. All to you: Daily prayer and thought, / And insomnia’s feverish rise, / The white flock of the poems I wrote, / A...»
«I don't know if you're alive or dead. / Can you on earth be sought, / Or only when the sunsets fade / Be mourned serenely in my thought? All is for you: the daily prayer, / The sleepless heat at night, / And of my verses, the white / Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire. No-one was mor...»
«I'll leave your quiet yard and your white house — / Let life be empty and with light complete. / I'll sing the glory to you in my verse / Like not one woman has sung glory yet. / And that dear girlfriend you remember / In heaven you created for her sight, / I'm trading product that is ...»
«I have not heard the tales of Ossian, / I have not tasted age-old wine — / why then do I seem to see a field / and Scotland's murderous moon? And in the sinister silence I seem to hear / the roll-call of the raven and the harp, / and, streaming in the wind, the scarves of men-at-arms / ...»