Thinking Of A Friend At Night

In this evil year, autumn comes early…I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,

The wind on my hat…And you?

And you, my friend?

You are standing—maybe—and seeing the sickle

Move in a small arc over the

And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.

You are lying—maybe—in a straw field and

And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.

It's possible tonight you're on horseback,

The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,

Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.

Maybe—I keep imagining—you are spending the

As a guest in a strange castle with a

And writing a letter by candlelight, and

On the piano keys by the window,

Groping for a sound…—And

You are already silent, already dead, and the

Will shine no longer into your

Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,

And your white forehead split open—Oh, if only,

If only, just once, that last day,

I had shown you, told

Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!

But you know me, you know…and, smiling, you

Tonight in front of your strange castle,

And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,

And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,

And think about me, and smile.

And maybe,

Maybe some day you will come back from the war,and take a walk with me some evening,

And somebody will talk about Longwy,

Luttich,

Dammerkirch,

And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,

And no one will speak a word of his worry,

Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,

Of his love.

And with a single

You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,

The summer lightning of shy human friendship,

Into the cool past that will never come back.

Translated by James Wright