I have lain down on the filthy floor,
My head leaning against the wall.
The pain… perhaps stronger
Than my poem?

I have been trying to recall the smile of my mother.
What I would like to do is pour
These poems over her soul,
This sobbing which has already lost its form.

Lord, now I own nothing else, and I will go along
With owning your face.
Because of this only I have been able to endure it all:
On bread and water.

Translated by Robert Bly

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