Navel of God's earth. From our seat
we hear sparrow hawks descend and drink.
The sound's like metals that clink
and melt in an azure heat.

A snake, a divine disgrace,
over flaking walls slides,
or lies, permanent, abides
where clay pots and bones leave their trace.

The camomile's dry teats
crumble on our lip.
At last taste will slip
away from sated taste buds' seats.

And then, your left hand in my right,
two last enrichments of matter,
we shall be food on a platter
in God's fire-proof funnel bright.

Translated by Paul Vincent