“Ah, Nature … Sure, Nature … And how about us?”
That’s Guildenstern and Fortinbras,
they mutter
while dawdling by the door, blocking the exit.
Behind the door—one hears hooves, a clatter.
Just like movers, carrying a grand-piano
upstairs—the glare, shine, and glow
of a big dead animal—
for those who’d play are gone.
… Like dust that horsemen plough
(I hear them beat the earth’s breast cracked with heat
the way children do)… that dust compressed and baked
plus Sunday papers blow away like sand—not now, no,
later—
return to the valley’s groin, yet later, later
are squeezed from craters stained by red
So cover floors with papers, throw them on a basalt
plateau, or the town square. Put on your winter coat.
—life frolics like a jukebox—
—let it play.
For what you want, Horatio, is in the morning papers
Yes, I am stubborn. Yes, I insist upon
and sing what I’m standing on,
and when I fall—I hear the hollow heart
that’s humming miles and miles below
encrusted granite shield.
—Earth! You’re my Shamil, my shield, my Israel,
my fever, you’re my hunger.
Translated by the author