… I’ve overslept my stop … the train will spit me out …
The halt is deserted. I’ll panic, that’s for sure.
The wind is wet and drives me from the platform
And tears and tousles me until I speak.
Wind, if I’m a sail, then where’s my boat?
If I’m a treetop, wind, show me my roots.
What am I to you? I’m asking calmly, nicely.
Distant clanking. Buckets? … Distant neighing. Horses?
“Silly” comes the whisper nice and calm,
“We know your niceness and we know your fables
But what are you to me?—a Chinese lantern or a sparkler.
If I can, I’ll huff and puff—you’ll gutter and go out.”
Wind, you’re master here. And I’m the guest and will be silent.
Ruined tractor. Gravel pit. Rusting stove-pipes.
The smell of the river sticks in my throat like a bone.
You’re master here. It’s hard to deny.
The train has come and I am leaving.
God Save the Wind! The houses echo and the fields are bare.
I’m strange to them and whether it’s my fault’s
Too late to say. There’s nowhere for me here … no word for me here.
Translated by Robert Reid