Translated by Douglas Haynes
Always naming: the tree, the bird in flight, the reddish boulder the stream runs over green, and the fish in white smoke when darkness falls over the woods. Signs, colors, it’s a game— I’m doubtful— it may not end fairly. And who teaches me what I forgot: the stones’ sleep, the sleep of birds in flight, the trees’ sleep—does their speech go on in the dark? If there were a God and he had a body and could call me, I would walk around, I would wait a while.