IN A FEW MORE MONTHS
This leafless tree
will be filled with birds
and smoke will have lost
its youth among the clouds.
Swift and cold today,
the street will move slower in summer,
more crowded than ever by my absence.
And that child will be a season
older than now.
Perhaps in April
he’ll fear the anormous dogs
he may be caressing in November.
And the old man who is looking at us
will then, perhaps, be looking at you
from a more distant star
or from the fresh presence
of a flower that musn’t know
that it will be born from such adult eyes.
But no one, my love, no one
will see you from their flaming heart
suffering like a distant, wounded star;
dawnless, flowerless, without a swallow:
a stranger to the wind’s pulse
that safeguards your hair
face to face
with its discovery of absences.
will have cut across
the flow of rivers.
Your embrace won’t find my breast.
My tenderness will he left to the winds.
- trans. by David Volpendesta