To the mule drivers, to the one guarding the bungalow,
to the home votive plate.

To the man who brings the eggs for the omelette,
to the one who sells them,
to the one who watches as I eat them.

To the writing materials, to the middle of a sentence, to the ideas on
hand.

To the day that makes the snow thaw,
to the outermost edge of the overhanging path,
to the strength of the wrists.

To the dangerous path, to the path
that is suddenly no longer there,
to the path that turns round and wishes us ‘goodbye'.

To the flattering expressions, to the names of place and addressee, to
the white.

To the den where I slept,
to the woman, loving and laughing and naughty and all,
to the idolatrous gestures.

To the night that fell, to the guides
that disappeared, to the imprints
of the mules' hooves.

To the shrewdness of the snake and the idleness of the dormouse,
to the middle of a sentence,
to the white.

Translation: 2013, John Irons