Tomorrow Triumphant

It is the summer
In you.
In your eyes.
In your mouth.
In the cities
and spacious fields
of your flesh.
Like this, my sweet hill,
you  lie,
spreading gently
beneath the avid
of my hands.

Is the edge
of a lake in Berlin,
and we’re there
upon the sand,
like the sun.
The water dares not
touch that bend.
It’s grey wings
close suddenly
upon the beach,
distant yet
from where we are.

I ask myself,
What will become of you?
It is an age old question, I know,
asked thousands of years before
by the same sorrow.
But, they say,
No one ever answered,
not even loneliness.

But I am not
like the first
that ever lived,
I will deny you oblivion.

You will always be with me.

As now,
When you sing summer
beneath these simple hand
that still hear you,
sweet hill of mine.

  • trans. by Tina Alvarez Robles