I dream my
favorite green tie
Is a hangman’s noose, and
I wake up.
It’s terribly sweet, this taste before death. . .
And it's morning.
I don’t have a tiepin to hand…
I live, disjointed from the expectations of the world.
It is not now forgotten,
this extraordinary taste of torment.
this taste from that
yesterday I was licking my son’s chocolaty fingers.
everything is clear.
My morning sensitivity – your scent,
And this scent became part of me.
Ten years following death of sorts
I'm waking up next to you.
this clapperboard fence. . .
such a roseate house. . .
blowing at the heart
such a cold wind . . .
from the nape of you
such a melancholy scent. . .
made drunk in the wind
such a fleeting glance. . .
Cold swallows warmth.
Clouds swallow brightness.
As much as glorious summer swells,
The season of melancholy draws ever nearer.
And just like brittle, yellow leaves,
The hair on your temples turns silver.
(trans. by Simon Wickham-Smith)