by Hans Faverey

    Translated by Francis R. Jones

    Beating his lead with the blunt

    end of his axe¹， flattening² it

    in order to forget that he is

    a child of death who wants to weight

    his net. Until it is suddenly

    done and the one who did not disappear

    stands in my room， taking me

    in； still lying whether I am，

    and how. Just as you might ask

    a fisherman returning with nothing：

    So where's the fish？ And for him to reply，

    without resentment³， without envy：

    The fish——it's in the sea.