On an old grand piano
the music was scattered.
But fingers crept out
for a little hunting:
with caresses, with blows,
with rain and with color,
enfolding in heat
or in sorrowful coldness;
they danced and they laughed,
were braided and bent,
whispered and cursed,
loved and didn’t care,
joked and endeavored,
beseeched and surrendered,
for a while put on airs,
awkwardly smiled
and pretended to be God …
And then they flew up,
fluttered off somewhere
(to sounds leaving shadows
that resembled streams)—
to look for new hunting,
and God tidied the music
and seemed to start weeping.
Translated by Peter France