Objavil je, kar je prejel
Preprosto zato, ker tega vrniti ni mogel:
Zbori svetlobe rastejo iz šklatne vode,
Plameni zarisujejo robove čeri, vratolomne sence obupa
Na vsakem oknu vzdolž obale,
Oddaljeno cviljenje galebov in jecljavi valovi,
Negiben polnočni zrak, pesek v belem grlenem glasu
Lunine medle rasti in pojemanja,
Okrutno sonce in njegovi krvaveči vrtovi soli.
Tisto malenkost, ki jo je nosil v roki, v prsih,
Vedel je, da mora biti zanjo hvaležen. Zadostovala je,
Morala bi zadostovati: kasno, nestalno šepetanje
Pod morsko travo, mrtvaško vlažna pesem o prihodu,
Čakanje, da slišiš, kakšna je bolečina, v kateri
So se besede vedno izkazale za neprave in takšne tudi ostale.
He gave out what was given him
Simply because he could not send it back:
Choruses of light come up from the purple water,
Fires lining the cliff-edge, urgent shades of despair
In every open window along the coast,
The distant whine of gulls and the stammering waves,
Motionless midnight air, sand in the white-throated sound
Of the moon's weak travel from bold to release,
The savage sun and its bleeding gardens of salt.
What litlle he held in his hand, in his breast,
He knew he had to be thankful for. It was enough,
Would have to be enough: a late impermanent whispering
Under the fronts, a death-wet song of arriwal,
A waiting to hear what pain is like, in which
The words always came out wrong and stayed that way.
