CURTAINS
Curtains, curtains all they are…
Here and everywhere they are.
In the windows, at the door,
In passages and vaults they are…
Curtains, curtains all they are…
And what about the things I love,
Now where are they, now where are they?
Before the curtain it’s so empty;
All inside, inside are they!
Curtains, curtains all they are…
The original curtain’s in the heart;
Pierced through only by which gaze?
Beneath the mask of outward form,
Cities lie beneath the haze.
Curtains, curtains all they are…
Toward the curtain onward rushing;
Horsed they are, on foot they are.
Roads, directions aimless wander;
Expressions elsewise put they are.
Curtains, curtains all they are…
A seed it wears a thousand shirts.
Seedlings all dressed up they are.
Hearts amazed are stricken dumb;
Bellies crying out they are.
Curtains, curtains all they are…
The final point, the final curtain;
Ringed with rugs for prayer they are.
Over there you see, you see,
Free, set free from death they are!
Curtains, curtains all they are…
Translated by Walter G. Andrews
THE CORPSE’S ROOM
A room, blinds lowered, a candle on the floor
And on the floor a naked shirt vivified by its fear;
The shadows of nails on milk-white walls,
Now neither rustling nor sound of footfalls.
He lies flat in bed, all tall and long and dead,
Covered in a sheet pulled up to his head.
On the bed-clothes his toes leave their trace,
By candlelight so wan and languid and dull his face.
Hands to his sides, last breath spilled from his breast,
Eyes, a colored window, on the nailed wood ceiling rest.
At the corner of his d”oping lips there is a line,
A little line, tiny, trembling for just a bit of time,
An instant hanging on his drooping lip atremble.
Clearly he went of a sudden without a struggle.
This is my own death, this is death for me.
When mine has come, this is how it will be.
Translated by Walter G. Andrews
SIDEWALKS
I’m in the street, in a street all lonely
Walking, walking and never looking back
At the point my path is mingled with the black
I seem to see a phantom wait for me
Ashen clouds overcast the darkling sky
Lightening bolts seek the chimneys of homes
In this midnight only two who sleepless roam
I here am one and there the sidewalks lie
Drop by drop a terror collects in me
At the head of every street the demons wait
The houses fix their gaze, dark black and great,
On me, like blindmen with their eyes ripped free
The sidewalks, mother to the suffering
Sidewalks, the person who has lived in me
Sidewalks, sound heard when all sounds cease to be
Sidewalks, a language within me lingering
I’ll not give up life in a soft embrace
I am the child nursed at this sidewalk’s breast
Please let no morning on this dark street rest
On this dark street let me ever run my race
Let me go on and the road, let us not stay
Let the lamps flow past me like a flood
Let hungry dogs hear the click-clack of my tread
Let there be an arch, vaulted in gloom, on my way
Let the daytimes be yours, give me darknesses
Let me not walk in light nor to eyes appear
As in a damp quilt let me wrap myself here
Cover me, cover me in their cool darknesses
If my body, full-length on these stones could lie
If these cold stones would draw the fever from my brow
Like these streets plunging into uncanny drowse
If only the sidewalks’ melancholy mate would die
Translated by Walter G. Andrews
THE DEAD
The dead cry out from their cemeteries
Travelers! Sit here on our stones.
It is we who tipped them to the ground
We it was who thusly cast them down
Beware, don’t ever jump off gravestones
The dead cry out from their cemeteries
Travelers, lay you down long upon the ground
Against our stones just rest your heads
Our stones are soft as feather pillows
Let our heads join for an instant there
in us the answer to your groundless dread
Travelers, lay you down long upon the ground
One day I too will cry out like that
Travelers, sit here upon my stone
Travelers will whisper together before me
Travelers will surmount insurmountable trails
Upon the ground I will lay down my stone
One day I too will cry out like that
Translated by Walter G. Andrews
HOTEL ROOMS
It is pity burns in those narrow rooms
In the smoky lamps, in the smoky lamps,
A reflection lingers of faces known
In the misty glass, in the misty glass,
The scattered clothes are a strangled man
On the broken chairs, on the broken chairs,
And the shuffling slippers tap secret things
On the dingy floors, on the dingy floors,
In the naked walls throbs the pulse of pain
In the wounds of nails, in the wounds of nails,
And the teeth of time gnaw the rotting wood
In the dusty lofts, in the dusty lofts,
Weep for those who die without voice or friend
In hotel rooms, in hotel rooms.
Translated by Bernard Lewis
