Pure Balance
[Galway Kinnell]
Wherever we are is unlikely.
Our few kisses—I don't know if
they're of goodbye or of
what—or if she knows either.
Neither do I understand why it's
exhilarating—as well as the other things it is—
to know one doesn't have a future,
or how much longer one won't have one.
Future tramples all prediction.
Hope loses hope. Clarity
turns out to be
an invisible form of sadness.
We look for a bridge to cross
to the other shore where our other
could be looking for us
but all the river crossings
all the way down to the sea
have been bombed. We look for a tree—
touch it—touch
right through it—sometimes nowhere
is there anything to hitch oneself to,
and we must make our way by pure balance.
This is so and can't be helped
without doing damage to oneself.
THE LITTLE MUTE BOY
[Federico Garcia Lorca]
The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
I do not want it for speaking with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger.
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
(The captive voice, far away,
put on a cricket's clothes.)
[Translated By: W.S. Merwin]
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