We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

The body of a tall living hero alone
Walks first
In a wood made of more than a thousand columns,
Then stretches out on a shield
—Partly shining and partly of still warm shadow—
Formed with pine needles.

He rests
Under the musical guard of a quadrille of flies
Held at a respectful distance
By the circularly extended quiverings
Of living flesh.

Some long trees
With the plumes on their summits,
Ward off in the sky
All dangerous flakes.

Prisoners by their roots
Strong
But sinuous on their heels,
They move off around the precious
Olympian figure,
Opening up the skies
For him to see.

He,
With clean body,
Neither hot nor cold,
Without urgent need,
His vision richly fed
On a thousand blue sparks,
Makes move
down in his throat
deep under the veil of his eyes
Ears and nostrils,
The secret screen,
The curtain
Of Memory and Forgetting.

Everything trembles then
And refuses no command.
Each thing in particular
Would be sacrificed willingly.

But he is as just as he is strong
And his modesty enhances his power.
He gives to everyone at each moment
Full authorization
According to their own desires
Having excused everything,
Enriched by his intelligence,
He, already dead for them,
Lies down as they go off.