Ayurzana: Three Poems translated by Simon Wickham-Smith

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.

So 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.

***

weakened by the wind
     creaking moaning
           this clapperboard fence. . .

drunk in the wind
     swaying staggering
            such a roseate house. . .

striking the mind
     blowing at the heart
           such a cold wind . . .

dissipate
      from the nape of you
           such a melancholy scent. . .

ragged moon
    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.

-- Ayurzana
(trans. by Simon Wickham-Smith)