Translated by Peter Golub
Memory moves, like chalk
on asphalt, drawing us:
back and forth, again forward and back –
how the ocean is born,
the sky with a bird’s wing in the window.
And white light comes to the still face.
Sharp contour, bright eyes,
the way it was here, will remain
inside us, until lachrymal real water flows.
Chalk washed, inside yourself
keep the brave murk of the mute dregs:
you alone – in weeping – indomitable.