Nothing But Death
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
Death is inside the folding cots:
Sometimes I see alone
like a barking where there are no dogs,
death is inside the bones,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
with the penhttp://www.99lib.netetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
and the look death gives is green,
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
And there are corpses,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
but it www.99lib.netseems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
finger in it,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
Death arrives among all that sound
www.99lib.netit spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
Im not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
the river of dark purple,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Nothing But Death
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
and the somber color of embittered winter.
throat.
with bakers who are as white as angels,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
coffins under sail,
Translated by Robert Bly
as
99lib.net
though we were drowning inside our hearts,comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
death is inside the broom,
Pablo Neruda
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.