I'm lying in bed, sick.
Summer, outside of me, the joyful cry
of birds the gentle time of nature.
I'm over forty. And now,
once more, after so many forgotten things,
after so much accumulated death,
a few lines of verse sum up a life.
I'm lying in bed, sick.
From far away, through the window and darkness,
come playful songs
of beautiful children, happy total strangers.
The play at the strange game of the future,
the game of time, summer, full life.
I only hear their distant laughing voices
and I see them plunge into clear water,
turned into light, their bodies naked, a wealth of joy.
Sick, in bed, alone, lying down
-my memories are far off as well, children-
I have no game left but hope.

Translated by D. Sam Abrams