Seven Strophes

I was but what you'd brushwith your palm, what your leaningbrow would hunch to in evening'sraven-black hush.

I was but what your gazein that dark could distinguish:a dim shape to begin with,later - features, a face.

It was you, on my right,on my left, with your heatedsighs, who molded my helixwhispering at my side.

It was you by that blackwindow's trembling tulle patternwho laid in my raw caverna voice calling you back.

I was practically blind.

You, appearing, then hiding,gave me my sight and heightenedit.

Thus some leave behinda trace.

Thus they make worlds.

Thus, having done so, at randomwastefully they abandontheir work to its whirls.

Thus, prey to speedsof light, heat, cold, or darkness,a sphere in space without markersspins and spins.1981, translated by Paul Graves.