nativitas, this word like drifting sounds
of high-pitched bells would fit precisely above the
worm-eaten wood, the gentle breeze of the hills
imprinted in wax, surrounding the hollow in which
an exhausted woman sleeps below some faded
goats, the flaked-off stone crib
with the baby and the prayer alcove
of another era, all this earth-coloured
on a warped icon, wheezes,
cautious, wavy, weeping
fingers pointing to something beyond
the extant surface, over scratched-out
faces, some naked legs, torsoless
on their way into the void, as unknown
as we are to ourselves, nothing more,
are these figures,
full of invisible things, flecks
that extend to the retina, following
us with their eyes, cracks
in the grain, the zigzag chase
in the lines of continued
retouchings

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock