I came out of an old drawer
full of rags, little washcloths mother
used to use to dry her tender marble thighs soaked in blood and lymph.

What a great thing
a humble, common,
impersonal, rudimentary origin!
Whoever claims
he's the son of kings or God
doesn't understand the nobility
of primary matter, the dark majesty of springs,
the delicacy of burning pain, the repressed love of a stain,
the spiritual outburst of moth balls.

I close my eyes,
I revive sheltered by memories;
the immutable scribe records
on our pages of life
the soul's absolute zero.

Translated by D. Sam Abrams