I read Rimbaud years ago perched on rocks, in the smoke house kitchen
Next to the chicken pen, under the quince tree, wandering
Dusty paths, sitting on stone walls,
Enjoying the sun, the impossible return, the blackberries that’ll come,
I never really pursued delicate ways, but my life, I’ve lost it already
I no longer believe I’m in hell, hell is in me
And it burns, it burns like the future of all fireworks,
Lifeless houses among the gorse, ill-fated for not having burnt,
Figs no one tasted in September’s sad and golden land
At this time of night I’ve never been seventeen, I was born in the mirror’s dread
I face other endings every day, beds of suffering I try to allay
With hands that anticipate verse only to excuse the soul’s burden
The chicken used to enjoy my close silent presence, gulping
Glass after glass of red from my dead grandfather’s vine, now both alike,
Perhaps I too one day, but I do nothing and now it’s already dark.
Turku
21.02.2020
João Bosco da Silva
(translated by Ana Hudson, February 2020)
