A hint of absinthe fills the air when the beetles
emerging from the rotten bark of the old oaks
begin their flight in the month of june
Picking hazelnuts we walk through the garden
where the lindens' aroma wafts in the breeze
The coolness of the fruit defeats the declining sun
We are who we used to be walking so softly
with so much childlike dignity
that here not even death would remember us
nor would the monstrous flower of other destinies
or any other of the republics of hatred
stir up the calm sea of this late afternoon
It is to the sacred celebration of chance
to the feast of the world's mineral essence
that the sun is proceeding in this temple's inner sanctum
The afternoon is everything and everything is pathways
We are the chosen assistants to this hour
Here summer's insanity doesn't arrive
and I quit loathing my ancestors
and I rise as the last light flickers
For a moment I am I and here no one died
O my life that process I left behind

Translation: 2005, Richard Zenith