IMN CATRE MINE
HYMN TO MYSELF
I don’t know my inner soul
the dim light, the cool river reading from old books
and the stag, the air tortured
until it takes the shape of the night,
the shape of the ewer,
the shape of the foot, stuck in clay like in lava.
It is only this way, near my shoulder,
near the well, near the field of wheat,
in the sunrays of summer, of winter,
that I have stretched my body and I abandoned it
to the river, to the night, up and down, for better
and for worse.
Traducere de Mariana Zavati Gardner