by Yves Bonnefoy Translated by Hoyt Rogers

    Passerby¹， these are words. But instead of reading I want you to listen： to this frail² Voice like that of letters eaten by grass.

    Lend an ear， hear first of all the happy bee Foraging³ in our almost rubbed-out names.

    It flits between two sprays of leaves，Carrying the sound of branches that are real To those that filigree⁴ the unseen gold.

    Then know an even fainter sound， and let it be The endless murmuring of all our shades.

    Their whisper rises from beneath the stones To fuse into a single heat with that blind Light you are as yet， who can still gaze.

    Listen simply， if you will. Silence is a threshold Where， unfelt， a twig⁵ breaks in your hand As you try to disengage A name upon a stone：

    And so our absent names untangle your alarms.

    And for you who move away， pensively，Here beccomes there without ceasing to be.

上一篇：Passing Through Albuquerque 下一篇：Romance Sonambulo