Sand straw live softly softly take the wine
Gather the down-drifting dovecot feathers
Parch with the avid water-channel
Stay girls barefoot going
Pierce their chrysalids
Drink lightly carelessly the well suffered blood
We devour the grey fire’s pest among the stones
While in the village they plot and plan
The best place still for men is the ruined roads
The tomatoes in the garden are borne to us on the twilight air
And of our women’s next spite forgetfulness
And the smart of thirst aching in our knees
Sons this night our labor of dust
Will be visible in the sky
Already the oil rises from the lead again. *
* According to André du Bouchet this translation, first published in Transition Forty-nine, is to be attributed to Samuel Beckett. (Ed. note)