There is blood in your lips
and yet the wind pipes

yet the tube rumbles
under the table so much
that your head slumps
and even a faint word
explodes in your ear

your hair is strewn
across the cloth
yet your eye opens
and weighs in the lamplight
the dust that vibrates in the air

and the stuff that descends on you
too small for the table
too fine for the wind.

Translation: Paul Vincent