Poem of the Intimate Agony

This my heart, so flowing and so simple, is by now almost a fountain underneath my tears. It is a sorrow sitting somewhere beyond death. A sorrow that is waiting...waiting...waiting... Every passing hour carries death on its shoulders, I alone remain still with my shadow in my arms. The dusk doesn't cease its blows against my eyes, nor does life bring me down like a tired tree. This my heart that cannot even hear itself, that cannot even feel itself so silent and so lasting. How many times on aimless walks have I seen it gathering illusions like a lake full of stars! It is a sorrow sitting somewhere beyond death, a sorrow made of thorns and disbanded dreams. Believing myself a seagull, seeing me take flight, surrendering to the stars, to find myself in the puddles. I who always believed I could shed my anguish by merely hurling my soul to spin among the stars! Oh, my sorrow, sitting somewhere beyond death! This my heart so flowing and so lasting! Translated by Julio Marzan

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