I think that poetry is something like fingerprints
on the window behind which a child who can't sleep
stands waiting for dawn. Earth generates mist;

sorrow, a kind of sigh. Clouds
are responsible for twenty-five kinds of light.
They actually hold it back. Back lighting.

It's still too early to be now. But the rivers
are already leaving. They've heard the murmuring
from the silver factory of the sea.

Daughter beside me at the window. Loving her is
the easiest way to remember these things.
Birds hammer at the anvil of their call

all, all, all.

Translation: 2008, David Colmer