If I've written it's for thought
because my thoughts are troubled about life
it's for those happy beings
close in the evening shadow
for the evening which at a stroke
collapsed on the napes of necks
for every creature that backs away
pressing its spine against the railings
and for the waiting on the tide - without a cry - endless.
Write, I say to myself
and I write to press onwards more solitary into the enigma
because eyes disturb me
and the silence of footsteps is my own, mine the desert light
- light of the moorlands -
on the earth of the avenue.
Write because nothing is protected and the word wood
shakes more frailly than the wood itself, without branches or birds
because only courage can excavate
patience in the heights
until it takes the weight away
from the meadow's black weight.

Translated by Jamie McKendrick