Your lynx-eyes, Asia,
spy on my discontent;
they lure into the light
my buried self,
something the silence spawned,
no more to be endured
than the noon sun in Termez.
Pre-memory floods the mind
like molten lava on the sands . . . .
as if i were drinking my own tears
from the cupped palm of a stranger's hands.
~1945
Translated by Stanley Kunitz
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