We present this work in honor of the 60th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Body of stone, morose body
In woolens like the walls of the universe,
Body like the birthdays of the races,
Like edifices overwhelmingly innocent,
Like the shyest waterfalls
White as the night, while the mountain
Rips up manic shapes,
Pains like fingers
And pleasures like fingernails.

Not knowing where to go, where to go back to,
Seeking those merciful winds
That wear away the wrinkles in the earth,
That bless those desires cut out at the roots
Before flowering.
Their great blossom, like a child.

Lips want that flower
Whose fist, kissed by the night,
Opens the doors of oblivion lip by lip.

Translation by Reginald Gibbons