February 3rd

The sea with no waves we recognize,
with no stations on its route,
only water and moon, night after night!

My thought goes back to the land,
someone else's land, belonging to the one
going through it on trains at night,
through the same place at the same hour
as before . . .

Remote mother,
sleeping earth,
powerful and faithful arms,
the same quiet lap for all
—tomb of eternal life
with the same decorations freshened—
earth, mother, always
true to yourself, waiting for
the sad gaze
of the wandering eyes!

My thought goes back to the land,
—the olive groves at sunrise—
outlined sharply in the white
or golden or yellow moonlight,
that look forward to the coming back
of those humans who are neither its slaves nor its masters,
but who love it anyway . . .
Translated by Robert Bly