So many syllables and so many words have passed,
so many dead alphabets have passed,
as I count, I’m short of roots,
short of places and scenes of surrender.
There’s no room here to stand.
Between the stone corridors
years and photographs of names
Between the wax seals
of the prophets the tired trumpets.
There’s no throne to sit on.
Between our two deaths
there’s one death present.
From the Atropus of the Days collection.
Translated by James Lilley