Birth
These mountains: blackness, silence, and snow.
The red hunter climbs down from the forest;
Oh the mossy gaze of the wild thing.
The peace of the mother: under black firs
The sleeping hands open by themselves
When the cold moon seems ready to fall.
The birth of man. Each night
Blue water washes over the rockbase of the cliff;
The fallen angel stares at his reflection with sighs,
Something pale wakes up in a suffocating room.
The eyes
Of the stony old woman shine, two moons.
The cry of the woman in labor. The night troubles
The boy’s sleep with black wings,
With snow, which falls with ease out of the purple
clouds.
~Translated by James Wright and Robert Bly
Picture found here.
1 comment:
Thank you. You always do this, and you do it well.
In this age we have replaced the poetry of words with the poetry of numbers. But I still like words. However, if someone were to send me a poem in the form of a winning lotto number, I could be briefly persuaded otherwise.
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