Читать книгу Blood Orbits - Ger Killeen - Страница 9

The Translator’s Dream

There are poppyseed cakes

cooling on the window sills,

there are horses swimming

in the rich grass beyond.

Towards evening, the sky

grows more primrose,

the mammulus clouds

yellow as a girl’s hair:

indoors, the new light bleaches

all his spread-out papers blank.

And a rain that begins

as dashes turns into periods:

“Es heißt ‘virga’ “, a stork

clacks from the loft.

Soon he can hear the roof

whine under the grainy weight,

see the land as far as the eye

can see take on a black gleam.

The postman knocks twice,

slides under the door a postcard

of Goethe’s spreading oak:

“I waited and waited.

Why did you not come?”

in a hand he doesn’t know,

and no return address.