Translated by Forrest Gander

    This world.

    A sound sometimes dry，

    metallic¹，

    at times rubbery，

    has settled the morning for good.

    It has darkened little by little

    the songs of various birds，

    the croak² of the daily，

    wind among hedges，

    the green yearning³.

    A man places with inexhaustible precision

    one tile after the another on the roof of the house.

    He must be the owner.

    His work is like no other，

    constant， intended， without refrain.

    The noise he makes has no echo，

    but goes on a search，

    in search of the dawn.

    Those who live below

    will be voices

    that return， feeding on themselves

    beneath this roof.